those ten minutes, and perhaps someone was there
with her that shouldn't be there. All this had the sentry urged in
excuse of his failure to hear the approach of the officer of the day. It
was a black, moonless, starless night, and the officer concluded to
look. The board fence was high. He stepped within the gate, stumbled
over a loose plank, made quite a noise and said a few audibly profane
things as to the quartermaster's department for leaving walks in such
shape, but he could see nothing. So in a sheltered nook he struck a
match, and the instant he did so a man from the shadows lurched heavily
against him, muttered, "Giv'sh--light--o' man" and sprawled in a heap at
his feet. It proved to be Blenke, and Blenke proved to the satisfaction
of the court that he was blind drunk.

But the officer of the day and his comrades at the mess were beginning
to see light, as did the sentry on No. 4. Was it possible that Felicie,
who scorned the advances of the more prominent of the rank and file, and
had become an object of no little interest even to certain susceptible
subalterns--had, after all, reserved her smiles for the dark-eyed,
mournful, and romantic Blenke? If so, then Blenke had played the part of
a man with the skill of a consummate actor.

"I've seen Willard; I've seen Wyndham," said the puzzled captain, "and I
thought I'd seen 'David Garrick' played to perfection, but if Private
Beauty Blenke, of Company 'C,' Sixty-first Foot, wasn't drunk as a lord
that night, then Willard and Wyndham aren't in the business."

CHAPTER XVII

A MOMENTOUS DAY

A week,--another long week,--went by at Minneconjou, and Major Dwight at
last was declared out of danger, though a badly shattered man. Mrs.
Dwight, who should have shown corresponding improvement, seemed,
however, not so well. Just in proportion as the major mended, his wife
appeared to fail. Both doctors persisted in the belief that her case was
one of nerves entirely. There was nothing organically wrong. She had
been under a great strain, of course, and her husband, in his lucid
moments, as well as in those of delirium, had shown strong antipathy to
her presence in the sick room. They had persuaded her, without much
difficulty, that it were better she kept away, and though pathetically,
properly grieved, she obeyed. Something, however, was preying upon
her--something she could not and would not confide to Mrs. Stone and
other sympathetic would-be consolers. "Mada