tanard--Mrs. Enders--Ha, Wigfall! I saw your Texans this afternoon--"
Judith found General Stuart beside her. "Miss Cary, a man of the Black
Troop came back to camp yesterday. Says he, 'They've got an angel in the
Stonewall Hospital! She came from Albemarle, and her name is Judith. If
I were Holofernes and a Judith like that wanted my head, by George, I'd
cut it off myself to please her!'--Yes, yes, my friend!--Miss Cary, may
I present my Chief of Staff, Major the Baron Heros von Borcke? Talk
poetry with him, won't you?--Ha, Fauquier! that was a pretty dash you
made yesterday! Rather rash, I thought--"

The other withered him with a look. "That was a carefully planned,
cautiously executed manoeuvre; modelled it after our old
reconnoissance at Cerro Gordo. You to talk of rashness!--Here's A. P.
Hill."

Judith, with her Prussian soldier of fortune, a man gentle, intelligent,
and brave, crossed the room to one of the groups of men and women. Those
of the former who were seated rose, and one of the latter put out an arm
and claimed her with a caressing touch. "You are late, child! So am I.
They brought in a bad case of fever, and I waited for the night nurse.
Sit here with us! Mrs. Fitzgerald's harp has been sent for and she is
going to sing--"

Judith greeted the circle. A gentleman pushed forward a chair. "Thank
you, Mr. Soule. My father and I stay but a little while, Mrs. Randolph,
but it must be long enough to hear Mrs. Fitzgerald sing--Yes, he is
here, Colonel Gordon--there, speaking with Judge Campbell and General
Hill.--How is the general to-day, Mrs. Johnston?"

"Better, dear, or I should not be here. I am here but for a moment. He
made me come--lying there on Church Hill, staring at that light in the
sky!--Here is the harp."

Its entrance, borne by two servants, was noted. The violins were hushed,
the groups turned, tended to merge one into another. A voice was heard
speaking with a strong French accent--Colonel the Count Camille de
Polignac, tall, gaunt, looking like a Knight of Malta--begging that the
harp might be placed in the middle of the room. It was put there. Jeb
Stuart led to it the lovely Louisianian. Mrs. Fitzgerald drew off her
gloves and gave them to General Magruder to hold, relinquished her fan
to Mr. Jules de Saint Martin, her bouquet to Mr. Francis Lawley of the
London _Times_, and swept her white hand across the strings. She was a
mistress of the harp, and she sang to it in a rich, throbbing