iled, 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 f