Without the city, in the great state beyond, an irate governor had gathered his forces from the east and from the west.  Letters came and went between Jefferson City and Jefferson Davis, their purport being that the Governor was to work out his own salvation, for a while at least.  Young men of St. Louis, struck in a night by the fever of militarism, arose and went to Glencoe.  Prying sergeants and commissioned officers, mostly of hated German extraction, thundered at the door of Colonel Carvel’s house, and other houses, there—­for Glencoe was a border town.  They searched the place more than once from garret to cellar, muttered guttural oaths, and smelled of beer and sauerkraut, The haughty appearance of Miss Carvel did not awe them—­they were blind to all manly sensations.  The Colonel’s house, alas, was one of many in Glencoe written down in red ink in a book at headquarters as a place toward which the feet of the young men strayed.  Good evidence was handed in time and time again that the young men had come and gone, and red-faced commanding officers cursed indignant subalterns, and implied that Beauty had had a hand in it.  Councils of war were held over the advisability of seizing Mr. Carvel’s house at Glencoe, but proof was lacking until one rainy night in June a captain and ten men spurred up the drive and swung into a big circle around the house.  The Captain took off his cavalry gauntlet and knocked at the door, more gently than usual.  Miss Virginia was home so Jackson said.  The Captain was given an audience more formal than one with the queen of Prussia could have been, Miss Carvel was infinitely more haughty than her Majesty.  Was not the Captain hired to do a degrading service?  Indeed, he thought so as he followed her about the house and he felt like the lowest of criminals as he opened a closet door or looked under a bed.  He was a beast of the field, of the mire.  How Virginia shrank from him if he had occasion to pass her!  Her gown would have been defiled by his touch.  And yet the Captain did not smell of beer, nor of sauerkraut; nor did he swear in any language.  He did his duty apologetically, but he did it.  He pulled a man (aged seventeen) out from under a great hoop skirt in a little closet, and the man had a pistol that refused its duty when snapped in the Captain’s face.  This was little Spencer Catherwood, just home from a military academy.

Spencer was taken through the rain by the chagrined Captain to the headquarters, where he caused a little embarrassment.  No damning evidence was discovered on his person, for the pistol had long since ceased to be a firearm.  And so after a stiff lecture from the Colonel he was finally given back into the custody of his father.  Despite the pickets, the young men filtered through daily,—­or rather nightly.  Presently some of them began to come back, gaunt and worn and tattered, among the grim cargoes that were landed by the thousands and tens of thousands on the levee.  And they took them (oh, the pity