Perkins skulked off to his house, assuaged his aching head with cold water and his wounded spirit with whiskey.  As he tried to think the matter over a vague suspicion of the truth began to enter his confused brain.  The little slipper with which he had been hit over the eyes in the morning now became a broad hint.  He knew well, however, that it would be dangerous to make any charges, or even suggestions, unless he had ample proof.

When all became quiet again Miss Lou, in spite of deep anxieties, was overcome by extreme weariness and slept until, in a dream, she heard Scoville moaning and sighing in the extremity of physical pain.  Starting up, she saw it was broad day.  She passed her hand confusedly over her brow and tried to recall what had occurred, to understand the sounds which had suggested her dream.  Then in a flash, the strange swirl of events in which she was involved presented itself and she knew she had wakened to other experiences beyond even her imagination.  The groans of wounded men brought pitiful tears to her eyes and steadied her nerves by banishing the thought of self.  Whatever might befall her, so much worse was the fate of others that already she was passing into the solemnity of spirit inspired by the presence of mortal pain and death.  She drew the curtains of her window and then shrank back, shuddering and sobbing, for, scattered over the lawn, men and horses lay stark and motionless.  More pitiful still, here and there a wounded horse was struggling feebly.  The spring morning, dewy, bright, fragrant, made these evidences of strife tenfold more ghastly.  There could not be a more terrible indictment of war than nature’s peaceful loveliness.

By the time she was dressed she was joined by Mrs. Whately, who looked serious indeed.  Before they could descend to the lower hall, Madison, haggard and gloomy of aspect, intercepted them.  Looking at his cousin’s red eyes and pale face, he asked abruptly, “What’s the matter?”

“Do you think I am accustomed to these sights and sounds?” she answered.

“Oh,” he said, in a tone which seemed to her heartless, “it’s an old story to me.  Mother, I must speak alone with you a moment.”

She turned back with him to her room, meantime saying, “Louise, I do not think you had better go down without me.”

The girl tremblingly returned to her apartment, fearing that now she might be forced to confront her own actions.  But she was conscious of a sort of passive courage.  Mad Whately’s anger, or that of others, was a little thing compared to the truth that men were dead and dying all about her.

“Mother,” said her son, “I had cursed luck last night.  I wish I had slept on the rain-soaked ground near my prisoners,” and he told her what had happened.

“Oh, Madison!” sighed Mrs. Whately, “I wish this experience would teach you to be more guided by me.  Louise cared nothing for this Yankee, except in a sort of grateful, friendly way.  Through him, you could have done so much to disarm—­”