“Well, Colonel Carvel, what can I do for you this morning?” asked the Marshal, genially.

The Colonel pushed back his hat and wiped his brow.  “I reckon I’ll wait till next week, Captain,” said Mr. Carvel.  “It’s pretty hot to travel just now.”

The Provost Marshal smiled sweetly.  There were many in the office who would have liked to laugh, but it did not pay to laugh at some people.  Colonel Carvel was one of them.

In the proclamation of martial law was much to make life less endurable than ever.  All who were convicted by a court-martial of being rebels were to have property confiscated, and slaves set free.  Then there was a certain oath to be taken by all citizens who did not wish to have guardians appointed over their actions.  There were many who swallowed this oath and never felt any ill effects.  Mr. Jacob Cluyme was one, and came away feeling very virtuous.  It was not unusual for Mr. Cluyme to feel virtuous.  Mr. Hopper did not have indigestion after taking it, but Colonel Carvel would sooner have eaten, gooseberry pie, which he had never tasted but once.

That summer had worn away, like a monster which turns and gives hot gasps when you think it has expired.  It took the Arkansan just a month, under Virginia’s care, to become well enough to be sent to a Northern prison He was not precisely a Southern gentleman, and he went to sleep over the “Idylls of the King.”  But he was admiring, and grateful, and wept when he went off to the boat with the provost’s guard, destined for a Northern prison.  Virginia wept too.  He had taken her away from her aunt (who would have nothing to do with him), and had given her occupation.  She nor her father never tired of hearing his rough tales of Price’s rough army.

His departure was about the time when suspicions were growing set.  The favor had caused comment and trouble, hence there was no hope of giving another sufferer the same comfort.  The cordon was drawn tighter.  One of the mysterious gentlemen who had been seen in the vicinity of Colonel Carvel’s house was arrested on the ferry, but he had contrived to be rid of the carpet-sack in which certain precious letters were carried.

Throughout the winter, Mr. Hopper’s visits to Locust Street had continued at intervals of painful regularity.  It is not necessary to dwell upon his brilliant powers of conversation, nor to repeat the platitudes which he repeated, for there was no significance in Mr. Hopper’s tales, not a particle.  The Colonel had found that out, and was thankful.  His manners were better; his English decidedly better.