“Now for the colonels,” said St. Clair, “and on our way we’ll tell the others.”

Bending under the weight of the sacks, they took their course toward a snug cove in the first slope of the Massanuttons, hailing friends on the way and sending them with swift steps toward the welcome orchard.  They passed within the shadow of a grove, and then entered a small open space, where two men sat on neighboring stumps, with an empty box between them.  Upon the box reposed a board of chessmen and at intervals the two intent players spoke.

“If you expect to capture my remaining knight, Hector, you’ll have to hurry.  We march tomorrow.”

“I can’t be hurried, Leonidas.  This is an intellectual game, and if it’s played properly it demands time.  If I don’t take your remaining knight before tomorrow I’ll take him a month from now, after this campaign is over.”

“I have my doubts, Hector; I’ve heard you boast before.”

“I never boast, Leonidas.  At times I make statements and prophecies, but I trust that I’m too modest a man ever to boast.”

“Then advance your battle line, Hector, and see what you can do.  It’s your move.”

The two gray heads bent so low over the narrow board that they almost touched.  For a little space the campaign, the war, and all their hardships floated away from them, their minds absorbed thoroughly in the difficult game which had come in the dim past out of the East.  They did not see anything around them nor did they hear Harry as he approached them with the heavy sack of apples upon his back.

Harry’s affection for both of the colonels was strong and as he looked at them he realized more than ever their utter unworldliness.  He, although a youth, saw that they belonged to a passing era, but in their very unworldliness lay their attraction.  He knew that whatever the fortunes of the war, they would, if they lived, prove good citizens after its close.  All rancor—­no, not rancor, because they felt none—­rather all hostility would be buried on the battlefield, and the friend whom they would be most anxious to see and welcome was John Carrington, the great Northern artilleryman, who had done their cause so much damage.

He opened his sack and let the red waterfall of apples pour down at their feet.  Startled by the noise, they looked up, despite a critical situation on the board.  Then they looked down again at the scarlet heap upon the grass, and, powerful though the attractions of chess were, they were very hungry men, and the shining little pyramid held their gaze.

“Apples! apples, Harry!” said Colonel Talbot.  “Many apples, magnificent, red and ripe!  Is it real?”

“No, Leonidas, it can’t be real,” said Lieutenant Colonel Hector St. Hilaire.  “It can’t be possible in a country that Sheridan swept as bare as the palm of my hand.  It’s only an idle dream, Leonidas.  I was deceived by it myself, for a moment, but we will not yield any longer to such weakness.  Come, we will return to our game, where every move has now become vital.”