“Curse you!” he panted; “curse you, you let me go and I’ll kill you,—­you Yankee upstart!”

But Stephen held on.  Brinsmade became more and more frantic.  One of the officers, seeing the struggle, started down the bank, was reviled, and hesitated.  At that moment Major Sherman came between them.

“Let him go, Brice,” he said, in a tone of command.  Stephen did as he was bid.  Whereupon Brinsmade made a dash for his pistol on the ground.  Mr. Sherman was before him.

“Now see here, Jack,” he said, picking it up, “I don’t want to shoot you, but I may have to.  That young man saved your life at the risk of his own.  If that fool Dutchman had had a ball in his gun instead of a wad, Mr. Brice would have been killed.”

A strange thing happened.  Brinsmade took one long look at Stephen, turned on his heel, and walked off rapidly through the grove.  And it may be added that for some years after he was not seen in St. Louis.

For a moment the other two stood staring after him.  Then Mr. Sherman took his boy by the hand.

“Mr. Brice,” he said, “I’ve seen a few things done in my life, but nothing better than this.  Perhaps the day may come when you and I may meet in the army.  They don’t seem to think much of us now,” he added, smiling, “but we may be of use to ’em later.  If ever I can serve you, Mr. Brice, I beg you to call on me.”

Stephen stammered his acknowledgments.  And Mr. Sherman, nodding his head vigorously, went away southward through the grove, toward Market Street.

The column was moving on.  The dead were being laid in carriages, and the wounded tended by such physicians as chanced to be on the spot.  Stephen, dazed at what had happened, took up the march to town.  He strode faster than the regiments with their load of prisoners, and presently he found himself abreast the little file of dragoons who were guarded by some of Blair’s men.  It was then that he discovered that the prisoners’ band in front was playing “Dixie.”

They are climbing the second hill, and are coming now to the fringe of new residences which the rich citizens have built.  Some of them are closed and dark.  In the windows and on the steps of others women are crying or waving handkerchiefs and calling out to the prisoners, some of whom are gay, and others sullen.  A distracted father tries to break through the ranks and rescue his son.  Ah, here is the Catherwood house.  That is open.  Mrs. Catherwood, with her hand on her husband’s arm, with red eyes, is scanning those faces for the sight of George.

Will he ever come back to her?  Will the Yankees murder him for treason, or send him North to languish the rest of his life?  No, she will not go inside.  She must see him.  She will not faint, though Mrs. James has, across the street, and is even now being carried into the house.  Few of us can see into the hearts of those women that day, and speak of the suffering there.