Mohun declared that he would remain an hour longer--and having promised a visit soon, at his camp on the Rowanty, I mounted my horse, and set out, through the darkness, for Petersburg.

XVII.

GENERAL DAVENANT.

Following the White Oak road, I pa.s.sed Hatcher's Run at Burgess's mill, and went on over the Boydton road, reflecting upon the scene I had just left.

All at once my horse placed his foot upon a sharp root in the road, stumbled, nearly fell, and when I touched him with the spur I found that he limped painfully.

Dismounting, I examined his foot. The sharp point had entered it, and it was bleeding profusely. The accident was unfortunate--and, attempting to ride on, I found the hurt worse than I had expected. My gray staggered on as if the limb were broken.

I dismounted once more, led him slowly by the bridle, and continued my way on foot. A quarter of a mile farther, the animal was in such agony that I looked around for some light, by which to examine the hurt more fully.

On the right, a glimmer was seen through the trees. I made straight toward it, through the woods, and soon found myself near a group of tents, one of which was lit up.

"Whose head-quarters are these?" I asked of a man on post, near.

"Mine, my dear colonel," said a voice in the darkness near. "My candle yonder is hospitable and enables me to recognize you."

With which words the figure advanced into the light, and I recognized the tall and stately form of General Davenant.

He gave me his hand cordially, and I explained my dilemma. "You are unfortunate, but fortunate, too," said Davenant, "as I have a man among my couriers who knows all about horses. I will send yours to him; meanwhile come into my tent."

And intrusting my horse to the orderly with some brief directions, the general led the way into his head-quarters tent.

A cheerful fire burned in the rude log-built chimney. On one side were a plain desk and two camp-stools; on the other a rough couch of pine logs, filled with straw, and spread with blankets. Upon the blankets a boy of about fourteen was sound asleep, the light auburn curls tossed in disorder over the rosy young face. At a glance I recognized the youth who had entered the ranks at Gettysburg, taken part in Pickett's charge, and been borne out through the smoke, wounded and bleeding, in the arms of his father. The young Charley had evidently recovered, and was as ruddy as before. His little braided jacket was as jaunty, his face as smiling, as on that evening near Paris.

An hour afterward, General Davenant and myself were conversing like old friends. We were by no means strangers, as I had repeatedly been thrown with him in the army, and my intimacy with Will doubtless commended me to the brave soldier's regard. An accident now seemed about to make us still better acquainted. The orderly had reported that it would be impossible to proceed farther with my horse that night, and I had accepted the invitation of General Davenant to remain with him until morning.

"My brigade is holding the right of the army, colonel," he had said; "we have just moved to this position, and have not had time to become very comfortable. But I can offer you a tolerable supper and a camp-bed after it, with a warm welcome, I a.s.sure you."

I declined the supper, but accepted the bed; and seated opposite the grizzled old cavalier, in his gray uniform, had begun to converse.

Something about the stately general of infantry, drew me irresistibly toward him. His bearing was lofty, and not without a species of hauteur; but under all was an exquisite high-breeding and courtesy, which made his society quite charming.

At some words of mine, however, in reference to my visit on this day to his son, a decided expression of gloom had obscured the smiles of the old soldier.

"Yes, colonel," he said, with something like a sigh, "Willie has lost his good spirits, and has been much depressed for more than a year. You are his friend--you share his confidence--you doubtless know the origin of this depression."

"I do, general; a very common cause of trouble to young men--a young lady."

"A young lady," repeated General Davenant, in the same gloomy tone. "He has committed the imprudence of falling in love, as the phrase is, with--Miss Conway."

He paused before the words "Miss Conway," and uttered them with evident repugnance. They issued from his lips, indeed, with a species of jerk; and he seemed glad to get rid of them, if I may so express myself.

"I can talk of this affair with you, colonel," he added, gloomily, "for Will has told me of your regard for him."

I bowed, and said:--

"You are not wrong in supposing that I am one of your son's best friends, general. I was long in the cavalry with him--there is no more heroic soldier in the army--and it has given me sincere sorrow to see him laboring under such melancholy."

General Davenant, with his hand covering his brow, listened in silence.

"I have not inquired the origin of this depression," I added--"that would have been indiscreet--though I know Will would tell me. I guessed it, however, and I have visited the young lady at her house to-night. I will certainly use my utmost exertions to remove all obstacles."

General Davenant suddenly rose erect. His eye was flashing.

"I beg you will not, colonel!" he exclaimed. "The barrier between himself and--Miss Conway--can never be removed."

I looked at the speaker's flushed face with positive wonder, and replied:--

"You astonish me, general! Are there any such obstacles in life?"

"There are!"

I made no reply.

"There are, colonel," repeated the now fiery old soldier. "Judge Conway has been guilty of a gross wrong to me. No son of mine shall ever form an alliance with his family!"

I looked up with deep astonishment.

"This is a very great surprise to me, my dear general," I said; "I thought, from many things, that it was Judge Conway who opposed this alliance; and from the belief that _you_ had done _him_ some great wrong."

General Davenant had taken his seat again, after his outburst. Once more his forehead was covered with his hand. For some moments he preserved a silence so profound, that nothing disturbed the night but the long breathing of the sleeping boy, and the measured tramp of the sentinel.

Then, all at once, the general raised his head. His expression was no longer fiery--it was unutterably sad.

"I have been reflecting, colonel," he said gravely, "and, in these few minutes, have come to a somewhat singular determination."

"What is that, general?"

"To tell you why _my_ son can never marry the daughter of Judge Conway!"

XVIII.

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.

General Davenant leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his forehead in his hand, and said in a deep, measured voice:--