had evidently not known about it. Clearly, it was
impassable. Its salient angles would have afforded him absolute security
if he had chosen to be satisfied with the miracle already wrought in his
favor and leapt into it. He could not go forward, he would not turn
back; he stood awaiting death. It did not keep him long waiting.

By some mysterious coincidence, almost instantaneously as he fell, the
firing ceased, a few desultory shots at long intervals serving rather to
accentuate than break the silence. It was as if both sides had suddenly
repented of their profitless crime. Four stretcher-bearers of ours,
following a sergeant with a white flag, soon afterward moved unmolested
into the field, and made straight for Brayle's body. Several Confederate
officers and men came out to meet them, and with uncovered heads
assisted them to take up their sacred burden. As it was borne toward us
we heard beyond the hostile works fifes and a muffled drum--a dirge. A
generous enemy honored the fallen brave.

Amongst the dead man's effects was a soiled Russia-leather pocketbook.
In the distribution of mementoes of our friend, which the general, as
administrator, decreed, this fell to me.

A year after the close of the war, on my way to California, I opened and
idly inspected it. Out of an overlooked compartment fell a letter
without envelope or address. It was in a woman's handwriting, and began
with words of endearment, but no name.

It had the following date line: "San Francisco, Cal., July 9, 1862." The
signature was "Darling," in marks of quotation. Incidentally, in the
body of the text, the writer's full name was given--Marian Mendenhall.

The letter showed evidence of cultivation and good breeding, but it was
an ordinary love letter, if a love letter can be ordinary. There was not
much in it, but there was something. It was this:

"Mr. Winters, whom I shall always hate for it, has been telling that at
some battle in Virginia, where he got his hurt, you were seen crouching
behind a tree. I think he wants to injure you in my regard, which he
knows the story would do if I believed it. I could bear to hear of my
soldier lover's death, but not of his cowardice."

These were the words which on that sunny afternoon, in a distant region,
had slain a hundred men. Is woman weak?

One evening I called on Miss Mendenhall to return the letter to her. I
intended, also, to tell her what she had done--but not that she did it.
I found her