Instead of going home, Chester kept on across the plateau and took a long walk on the northern side of the reservation, where the quarter-master’s stables and corrals were placed.  He was affected by a strange unrest.  His talk with Rollins had roused the memories of years long gone by,—­of days when he, too, was young and full of hope and faith, ay, full of love,—­all lavished on one fair girl who knew it well, but gently, almost entreatingly, repelled him.  Her heart was wrapped up in another, the Adonis of his day in the gay old seaboard garrison.  She was a soldier’s child, barrack-born, simply taught, knowing little of the vice and temptations, the follies and the frauds, of the whirling life of civilization.  A good and gentle mother had reared her and been called hence.  Her father, an officer whose sabre-arm was left at Molino del Rey, and whose heart was crushed when the loving wife was taken from him, turned to the child who so resembled her, and centred there all his remaining love and life.  He welcomed Chester to his home, and tacitly favored his suit, but in his blindness never saw how a few moonlit strolls on the old moss-grown parapet, a few evening dances in the casemates with handsome, wooing, winning Will Forrester, had done their work.  She gave him all the wild, enthusiastic, worshipping love of her girlish heart just about the time Captain and Mrs. Maynard came back from leave, and then he grew cold and negligent there, but lived at Maynard’s fireside; and one day there came a sensation,—­a tragedy,—­and Mrs. Maynard went away, and died abroad, and a shocked and broken-hearted girl hid her face from all and pined at home, and Mr. Forrester’s resignation was sent from—­no one knew just where, and no one would have cared to know, except Maynard.  He would have followed him, pistol in hand, but Forrester gave him no chance.  Years afterwards Chester again sought her and offered her his love and his name.  It was useless, she told him, sadly.  She lived only for her father now, and would never leave him till he died, and then—­she prayed she might go too.  Memories like this will come up at such times in these same “still watches of the night.”  Chester was in a moody frame of mind when about half an hour later he came back past the guard-house.  The sergeant was standing near the lighted entrance, and the captain called him: 

“There’s a ladder lying back of the colonel’s quarters on the roadway.  Some of those painters left it, I suppose.  It’s a wonder some of the reliefs have not broken their necks over it going around to-night.  Let the next one pick it up and move it out of the way.  Hasn’t it been reported?”

“Not to me, sir.  Corporal Schreiber has command of this relief, and he has said nothing about it.  Here he is, sir.”

“Didn’t you see it or stumble over it when posting your relief, corporal?” asked Chester.

“No indeed, sir.  I—­I think the captain must have been mistaken in thinking it a ladder.  We would surely have struck it if it had been.”