ld be out to visit his sentries after midnight; but it occurred to
him he would have no weapon but the sabre, and he meant to offer him
fair fight. A light was burning in the rear room. He peeped through the
blinds and saw him undressing as though to go to bed. He could wait no
longer. He opened the kitchen door, which Shea had left unlocked,
entered the house, and rapped at Gleason's door. The lieutenant supposed
it to be Shea, probably, and opened it himself. "Behold the man you have
outraged, I said. I give you one instant only to get your pistol. We
fight here to the death. He sprang back, still facing me; he was livid
with fear; he called for help, help! he ordered me to leave, he was a
craven and would not fight; he called louder, and then I fired; he gave
a scream and fell towards me on his face. I had hurled my gauntlet at
him as I challenged, but there was no time to pick it up. I turned and
fled. Some one seized me at the back gate, but I hurled him aside and
ran on tiptoe to my horse. I heard voices coming, but no one could hear
me. I led my horse some distance; then mounted and galloped madly this
way. Near town he stumbled, fell, and rolled on me, and I knew no more
till I heard them say he was dead and that the Herr Lieutenant had
killed him. Then I strove to escape, and we had a fearful fight. They
overcame and drugged me, I think, but again I came to, and begged to be
let to see you. They keep me for the reward, perhaps, but they see me
dying, and the police come at last."

In the solemn hush of the darkened room, far from the land where he had
been known and loved, where doubtless his gifts had been valued, and his
life, until wrecked by that duel, was honored, the Saxon soldier lay
breathing his last. Mad or sane, there was no one there to rightly
judge. The one trait that shone to the end was the strong love of the
profession which he could have adorned so well. His glazing eyes looked
wistfully into Ray's pale face; his tremulous hand sought that of the
young officer, who knelt there by his side; in faint, broken accents he
spoke his last earthly plea:

"I was a gentleman once, Herr Lieutenant. I am soldier--even now. You
are the soldier the men all love. May I not take your hand?"

CHAPTER XXVII.

VINDICATED.

Life at Russell had lost for the time being so much of its customary
gayety as to warrant Mrs. Turner's discontented descriptive of "poky."
With all but three or four officers abs