new perception of Carl's character had burst suddenly, with a
wonderful light, upon his dazzled understanding. In the terror of their
first encounter, in this strange place, he had comprehended nothing of
the situation. He had not even remembered that he last saw Carl in the
guard-house, with irons on his wrists. It was like a fragment of some
dream to find him here, holding the lifeless Lysander in his arms. But
now he remembered; now he comprehended. Carl had saved him from torture
by engaging to bring this man to the cave; whom by some miracle of
courage and valor, he had overcome and captured, and brought thus far
over the lonely rocks. All was yet vague to the old negro's mind; but it
was nevertheless strange, great, prodigious. And this lad, this Carl,
whom Penn had brought, a sort of vagabond, a little hungry beggar, to
Mr. Villars's house--that is to say, Toby's; whom the vain, tender,
pompous, affectionate old servant had had the immense satisfaction of
adopting into the family, patronizing, scolding, tyrannizing over, and
tenderly loving; who had always been to him "Dat chil'!" "dat
good-for-nuffin'!" "dat mis'ble Carl!"--the same now loomed before his
imagination a hero. The simple spreading of the handkerchief over the
face appeared to him a master-stroke of cool sagacity. He himself, with
all that stupendous wisdom of his, would not have thought of that! He
actually found himself on the point of saying "Massa Carl!"

Ah, this foolish old negro is not the only person who, in these times of
national trouble, has been thus astonished! Carl is not the only hero
who has suddenly emerged, to thrilled and wondering eyes, from the
disguises of common life. How many a beloved "good-for-nothing" has gone
from our streets and firesides, to reappear far off in a vision of
glory! The school-fellows know not their comrade; the mother knows not
her own son. The stripling, whose outgoing and incoming were so familiar
to us,--impulsive, fun-loving, a little vain, a little selfish, apt to
be cross when the supper was not ready, apt to come late and make you
cross when the supper was ready and waiting,--who ever guessed what
nobleness was in him! His country called, and he rose up a patriot. The
fatigue of marches, the hardships of camp and bivouac, the hard fare,
the injustice that must be submitted to, all the terrible trials of the
body's strength and the soul's patient endurance,--these he bore with
the superb buoyancy of