I was unwise--but--"

"Oh, let us drop it, Mr. Rivers. How is John? I have been three times to
see him and he twice to see me, but always he was at the front, and as
for me we have six thousand beds and too few surgeons, so that I could
not often get away. Does he know of this man's fate?"

"No--and he had better not."

"I agree with you. Let us bury his name with him. So he shot our dear
Colonel--how strange, how horrible!"

"He believed that he did shoot him, and as the ball came from the lines
of the 71st when the fight was practically at an end, it may be true. He
certainly meant to kill him."

"What an entirely, hopelessly complete scoundrel!" said McGregor.

"Except," said Rivers, "that he did not want his mother to know how he
died."

"Human wickedness is very incomplete," said the surgeon. "I wonder
whether the devil is as perfectly wicked as we are taught to believe. You
think this fellow, my dear old schoolmaster, was not utterly bad. Now
about wanting his mother not to know--I for my part--"

"Don't, Tom. Leave him this rag of charity to cover a multitude of sins.
Now, I must leave you. See John soon--he is wasted by unending and
dangerous work--with malaria too, and what not; see him soon. He is a
splendid replica of the Colonel with a far better mind. I wish he were at
home."

"And I that another fellow were at home. Good-bye."

McGregor called at John's tent, but learned that at six he had gone on
duty to the trenches.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Late on Christmas morning of this year 1864, Penhallow with no duty on
his hands saw with satisfaction the peacemaking efforts of the winter
weather. A thin drizzle of cold rain froze as it fell on the snow; the
engineers' lines were quiet. There was no infantry drill and the raw
recruits had rest from the never satisfied sergeants, while unmanageable
accumulations of gifts from distant homes were being distributed to
well-pleased men. Penhallow, lazily at ease, planned to spend Christmas
day with Tom McGregor or Roland Blake. The orders of a too energetic
Colonel of his own Corps summarily disposed of his anticipated leisure.
The tired and disgusted Captain dismounted at evening, and limping gave
his horse to Josiah.

"What you done to Hoodoo, Master John? He's lame--and you too."

Without answering John Penhallow turned to greet Tom McGregor. "Happy
Christmas, Tom."

"You don't look very happy, John, nor that poor beast of yours. But I am
glad t