It was an odd position, a heartless caprice of fate.  I felt the full measure of its strangeness, yet the thought never occurred to me of shrinking back from duty, nor slightest dream of realizing a personal victory through any act of baseness.  I was not there for his sake, or my own, but to redeem my pledged word to her whose slightest wish was law, whose pleading face forever rose before me.  Nevertheless, as I stood fronting him for the first time, there was little except bitter hatred in my heart—­hatred which, no doubt, burned for the instant within my eyes,—­but a hatred which never returned, to curse my memory, from that day unto this.  I may have found much to test my patience, much to dislike about him in those weary weeks which followed, much of weakness and of fickle spirit, but naught ever gave birth anew to the deep resentment I buried there.

The room in which I found myself was long and narrow, dimly lighted by an oil lamp screwed fast into a blackened beam overhead.  Along one side was the bare wall, unrelieved in its plain planking except for a small cracked mirror and a highly colored picture of the Virgin in a rude frame.  Opposite, two berths were arranged one above the other, both partially concealed by a dingy red curtain extending from ceiling to floor.  The only other furniture I noted in my hasty survey consisted of a rough stool chair, and a huge iron-bound, wooden sea-chest, the last so bulky as almost completely to block the narrow space between the lower berth and the opposite wall.  Seated upon the stool, which was tilted back upon two legs, his shoulders resting comfortably on a pillow pressed against the wall, his long limbs extended in posture of supreme contentment and laziness, upon the chest, was the man of my desperate search, the gallant soldier of France, the leader of rebellion, condemned to die before the rifles within four short hours.

I have never greatly feared death, have witnessed it often and in many hideous forms, yet always believed it would test my nerves to the uttermost to face it as a certainty under guard of enemies.  Yet here was one, young in years, strong of limb, vigorous of hope, with all the joy of life just opening before him; a man of wealth, of fashion, and of ease, who was seemingly awaiting the inevitable hour of his doom with as calm indifference as if it meant no more than the pleasant summons to a Creole ball.  With one glance I made a mental picture of him—­a young, high-bred face, marred somewhat by dissipation and late hours, yet beneath that dim light appearing almost boyishly fresh, and bearing upon its every feature the plain impress of reckless humor, and indolent content.  It was the face of a youth rather than a man; of one more accustomed to looking upon gay companions at the club than on the horrors of a battlefield; one who could justly be expected to boast of fair conquests, yet who might prove somewhat slow at drawing sword to front a warrior of mettle, unless his blood were heated with wine.