no worse than yours."

"That may be. Any of them are bad."

"We are a ravaged and blockaded country. It is with some difficulty that
we feed and clothe our armies in the field. As for medicines with which
to fight disease, you will not let them pass, not for our women and
children and sick at home, and not for your own men in prison. And, for
all our representations, you will not exchange prisoners. If there is
undue suffering, I think you must share the blame."

"Yes, yes, it is all hellish enough!--Well, on one side of the dice,
prisoner of war; on the other, death here under poor Caliph. Might
escape from prison, no escape from death. By Jove, what a thunderclap!
It's Stonewall Jackson pursuing us, eh?"

"Yes. I hear Pelham's guns--You are an Englishman?"

"Yes. Francis Marchmont, at your service; colonel of the Marchmont"--he
laughed--"Invincibles."

"I am Maury Stafford, serving on General Ewell's staff.--Yes, that's
Pelham."

He straightened himself. "I must be getting back to the front. It is
hard to hear for the wind and rain and thunder, but I think the musketry
is recommencing." He looked about him. "We came through these woods
this morning. Stuart has patrols everywhere, but I think that dip
between the hills may be clear. You are pretty pale yet. You had better
keep the brandy flask. Are you sure that you can walk?"

"Walk beside you into your lines, you mean?"

"No. I mean try a way out between the hills."

"I am not your prisoner?"

"No."

Marchmont pulled at his moustaches. "Yes. I think I can walk. I won't
deprive you of your flask--but if I might have another mouthful--Thank
you." He rose stiffly. "If at any time I can serve you, I trust that you
will remember my name--Francis Marchmont, colonel Marchmont Invincibles.
Send me a slip of paper, a word, anything. _Ox Hill_ will do--and you
will find me at your service. Yes, the firing is beginning again--"

Stafford, once more upon the road, travelled northward in an unabated
storm. Tree and bush, weed, flower and grass, writhed and shrank beneath
the anger of the air; the rain hissed and beat, the lightning glared,
the thunder crashed. Between the flashes all was dusk. Before him the
rattle of musketry, the booming of the guns grew louder. He saw to the
right, on a bare rise of ground, Pelham's guns.

There came an attempted flanking movement of the blue--a dash of cavalry
met by Stuart and followed by a movement of two of Hill's brigades