ht him! As Milton
says, 'There's method in his madness'--Shakespeare, was it, Morris?
Don't read much out on the plains."

The younger aide had been gleeful throughout the recital. "Stonewall's a
good name, by George! but, by George! they ought to call him the Artful
Dodger--"

Maury Stafford burst into laughter. "By Heaven. Morris, you'd better
tell him that! Have you ever seen him?"

"No. They say he's real pious and as simple as they make them--but Lord!
there hasn't been anything simple about his late proceedings."

Stafford laughed again. "Religious as Cromwell, and artless as
Macchiavelli! Begins his orders with an honourable mention of God,
closes them with 'Put all deserters in irons,' and in between gives
points to Reynard the Fox--"

Ewell took his cigar from his lips. "Don't be so damned sarcastic,
Maury! It's worse than drink--Well, Deane?"

One of his troopers had appeared. "A courier has arrived, general, with
a letter from General Jackson. I left him at the mill and came back to
report. There's a nice little office there with a light and writing
materials."

Dusk filled the forest, the night came, and the stars shone between the
branches. A large white moon uprose and made the neighbouring road a
milky ribbon stretched east and west. A zephyr just stirred the myriad
leaves. Somewhere, deeper in the woods, an owl hooted at intervals, very
solemnly. Billy heaped wood upon the fire, laid his gun carefully, just
so, stretched himself beside it and in three minutes reached the deepest
basin of sleep. Allan sat with his back to the hickory, and the
firelight falling upon the leaves of a book he had borrowed from some
student in the ranks. It was a volume of Shelley, and the young man read
with serious appreciation. He was a lover of poetry, and he was glad to
meet with this poet whose works he had not been able as yet to put upon
his book-shelf, back in the little room, under the eaves of the
tollgate. He read on, bent forward, the firelight upon his ample frame,
gold of hair and beard, and barrel of the musket lying on the leaves
beside him.

O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Allan made the fire yet brighter, listened a moment to the hooting of
the owl, then read on:--

Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the