I wrote to Guy Johnson, acquainting him of my intention before I enlisted, and the letter went to him with other correspondence under a flag.

In time I had a reply from him, and he wrote as though something stronger than hatred for the cause I had embraced was forcing him to speak to me gently.

God knows it was a strange, sad letter, full of bitterness under which smouldered something more terrible, which, as he wrote, he strangled.  And so he ended, saying that, through him, no harm should ever menace me; and that in the fullness of time, when this vile rebellion had been ended, he would vouch for the mercy of His Most Christian Majesty as far as I was concerned, even though all others hung in chains.

Thus I had left it all—­ not then knowing who I was or why Guy Johnson had been kind to me; nor ever expecting to hear from him again.

Thinking of these things as I rode beside Lieutenant Boyd through the calm Westchester sunshine, all that part of my life—­ which indeed was all of my life except these last three battle years—­ seemed already so far sway, so dim and unreal, that I could scarce realise I had not been always in the army—­ had not always lived from day to day, from hour to hour, not knowing one night where I should pillow my head the next.

For at nineteen I shouldered my rifle; and now, at Boyd’s age, two and twenty, my shoulder had become so accustomed to its not unpleasant weight that, at moments, thinking, I realised that I would not know what to do in the world had I not my officers, my company, and my rifle to companion me through life.

And herein lies the real danger of all armies and of all soldiering.  Only the strong character and exceptional man is ever fitted for any other life after the army becomes a closed career to him.

I now remarked as much to Boyd, who frowned, seeming to consider the matter for the first time.

“Aye,” he nodded, “it’s true enough, Loskiel.  And I for one don’t know what use I could make of the blessings of peace for which we are so madly fighting, and which we all protest that we desire.”

“The blessings of peace might permit you more leisure with the ladies,” I suggested smilingly.  And he threw back his handsome head and laughed.

“Lord!” he exclaimed.  “What chance have I, a poor rifleman, who may not even wear his hair clubbed and powdered.”

Only field and staff now powdered in our corps.  I said:  “Heaven hasten your advancement, sir.”

“Not that I’d care a fig,” he protested, “if I had your yellow, curly head, you rogue.  But with my dark hair unpowdered and uncurled, and no side locks, I tell you, Loskiel, I earn every kiss that is given me—­ or forgiven.  Heigho!  Peace would truly be a blessing if she brought powder and pretty clothing to a crop-head, buck-skinned devil like me.”