Colonel Carvel shook his head.  “You were never too busy to come for supper, Lige.  I reckon the cargo isn’t all.”

Captain Lige shot at him a swift look.  He gulped.

“Come over here on the levee,” said the Colonel, sternly.  They walked out together, and for some distance in silence.

“Lige,” said the elder gentleman, striking his stick on the stones, “if there ever was a straight goer, that’s you.  You’ve always dealt squarely with me, and now I’m going to ask you a plain question.  Are you North or South?”

“I’m North, I reckon,” answered the Captain, bluntly.  The Colonel bowed his head.  It was a long time before he spoke again.  The Captain waited like a man who expects and deserve, the severest verdict.  But there was no anger in Mr. Carvel’s voice—­only reproach.

“And you wouldn’t tell me, Lige?  You kept it from me.”

“My God, Colonel,” exclaimed the other, passionately, “how could I?  I owe what I have to your charity.  But for you and—­and Jinny I should have gone to the devil.  If you and she are taken away, what have I left in life?  I was a coward, sir, not to tell you.  You must have guessed it.  And yet,—­God help me,—­I can’t stand by and see the nation go to pieces.  Your nation as well as mine, Colonel.  Your fathers fought that we Americans might inherit the earth—­” He stopped abruptly.  Then he continued haltingly, “Colonel, I know you’re a man of strong feelings and convictions.  All I ask is that you and Jinny will think of me as a friend—­”

He choked, and turned away, not heeding the direction of his feet.  The Colonel, his stick raised, stood looking after him.  He was folded in the near darkness before he called his name.

“Lige!”

“Yes, Colonel.”

He came back, wondering, across the rough stones until he stood beside the tall figure.  Below them, the lights glided along the dark water.

“Lige, didn’t I raise you?  Haven’t I taught you that my house was your home?  Come back, Lige.  But—­but never speak to me again of this night!  Jinny is waiting for us.”

Not a word passed between them as they went up the quiet street.  At the sound of their feet in the entry the door was flung open, and Virginia, with her hands out stretched, stood under the hall light.

“Oh, Pa, I knew you would bring him back,” she said.

CHAPTER XXIII

OF CLARENCE

Captain Clarence Colfax, late of the State Dragoons, awoke on Sunday morning the chief of the many topics of the conversation of a big city.  His conduct drew forth enthusiastic praise from the gentlemen and ladies who had thronged Beauregard and Davis avenues, and honest admiration from the party which had broken up the camp.  The boy had behaved well.  There were many doting parents, like Mr. Catherwood, whose boys had accepted the parole, whose praise was a trifle lukewarm, to be sure.  But popular opinion, when once aroused, will draw a grunt from the most grudging.