hand
warmly--"for the last time, I say, for it would unman me to see you on
that day, and Penn-- would fain be himself, proud and unshaken even in
his disgrace. There--there--go, my dear boy, let this be the last
visit of your life to the barracks. God bless you!" and after giving
his hand a hearty grasp, I turned hurriedly away, to hide my feeling.
In passing the door I gave a hasty glance back, and saw Penn-- sitting
as before, his arms folded, his heels beating the bench, but so
slowly, that their strokes seemed like the dying vibrations of a
pendulum; and the whistle was so low that it was scarcely audible.
With a heavy heart I passed away, much preferring to acknowledge the
acquaintance of a "deserter" like Poor Penn-- than to continue that of
the unimpeachable Sergeant Smith. Another week brought around the day
of my friend's departure, and I found it impossible to resist the
temptation to take a farewell look at my old companion. Accordingly I
crossed the river, and taking my station behind a large tree on the
bank of the river, so that I could see Penn--without letting him see
me, I awaited with melancholy patience the moment when the deserters
should be led out. The steamboat was puffing and groaning at the
wharf, and in a few moments the heavy door of the guard-room swung
open; there was a sudden clanking of irons, and soon I saw prisoner
after prisoner emerge, dragging long heavy chains, which were attached
to their ankles. I counted them as they came out--counted a dozen--but
yet no Penn--; counted eighteen--nineteen--but the twentieth, and
last, proved to be him. No language can describe the solemn majesty
with which he brought up the rear of that dishonored line. No chain
clanked as he stepped to tell of his disgrace; and the spectators,
instead of suspecting him as being a culprit, may easily have imagined
him to be one of the sergeants who had the rest in charge. This, to
me, was a matter of much surprise, and turning to an old soldier at my
side, I inquired,

"What does this mean, isn't Penn-- one of them?"

"Of course he is," was the reply.

"But why doesn't he wear a chain like the rest?"

"Wear a chain," said the soldier, "you don't know Penn--, Sergeant
Penn-- that was. He wear a chain! Why, bless your heart, he carries as
heavy a chain as any of them, but he's got it twisted around his leg,
under his pantaloons, clear above his knee! He's too proud to drag
it--he'd die first!"

Poor Penn--!