Did he remember this—­and that—­and that?  Memories—­memories—­memories.  Was there anything she had let go unforgotten?  And then, as they approached the porch in answer to a summons to supper, brought out by a little negro girl, she said: 

“You haven’t told me what regiment you are going with.”

“I don’t know.”

Judith’s eyes brightened.  “I’m so glad you have a commission.”

“I have no commission.”

Judith looked puzzled.  “Why, your mother——­”

“Yes, but I gave it to Basil.”  And he explained in detail.  He had asked General Carter to give the commission to Basil, and the General had said he would gladly.  And that morning the Colonel of the Legion had promised to recommend Basil for the exchange.  This was one reason why he had come back to the Bluegrass.  Judith’s face was growing more thoughtful while he spoke, and a proud light was rising in her eyes.

“And you are going as——­”

“As a private.”

“With the Rough Riders?”

“As a regular—­a plain, common soldier, with plain, common soldiers.  I am trying to be an American now—­not a Southerner.  I’ve been drilling at Tampa and Chickamauga with the regulars.”

“You are much interested?”

“More than in anything for years.”

She had seen this, and she resented it, foolishly, she knew, and without reason—­but, still, she resented it.

“Think of it,” Crittenden went on.  “It is the first time in my life, almost, I have known what it was to wish to do something—­to have a purpose—­that was not inspired by you.”  It was an unconscious and rather ungracious declaration of independence—­it was unnecessary—­and Judith was surprised, chilled—­hurt.

“When do you go?”

Crittenden pulled a telegram from his pocket.

“To-morrow morning.  I got this just as I was leaving town.”

“To-morrow!”

“It means life or death to me—­this telegram.  And if it doesn’t mean life, I don’t care for the other.  I shall come out with a commission or—­not at all.  If dead, I shall be a hero—­if alive,” he smiled, “I don’t know what I’ll be, but think of me as a hero, dead or alive, with my past and my present.  I can feel a change already, a sort of growing pain, at the very thought.”

“When do you go to Cuba?”

“Within four days.”

“Four days!  And you can talk as you do, when you are going to war to live the life of a common soldier—­to die of fever, to be killed, maybe,” her lip shook and she stopped, but she went on thickly, “and be thrown into an unknown grave or lie unburied in a jungle.”  She spoke with such sudden passion that Crittenden was startled.

“Listen!”