* * * * *

For the last half hour the silence and the blackness of the grave had
existed in "B" Troop's big squad room. The "shouting and the tumult" had
died a lingering death. One cannot yell and hurl challenge indefinitely,
and shouting up one's courage begins to lose its efficacy if long
continued. One big-lunged mutineer had held out with his firing and
bellowing until the nerves of the rest could stand it no longer. They
then rudely suppressed him. He sounded so absurdly and pathetically
foolish. He was typical of their own status. "One nigger shootin' a
bluff at de whole United States Army!" They realized that with fifty it
was no less idiotic.

If it had not been for old Wilson passing stealthily to and fro among
them, with that wild light in his eyes, and those crazy mumblings,
doubtless there would have, already, been breaks in the ranks. But no;
there was that other thing, lying over there where it fell. There was no
use now; there could be no looking back. Each turned wearily to his door
or window and renewed his wide-eyed effort to pierce the web of
blackness over the square. And the everlasting rain still fell.

A door swung cautiously somewhere. There was the sound of some one
moving with steady, determined step down the center of the room. Then,
without warning, their unaccustomed eyes were momentarily blinded by a
light taken suddenly from under a poncho; and there in the center of the
room stood a lone officer; in one hand a lantern, in the other a big
blue revolver.

For an instant there was no movement. Then there was a counter reaction.
With the snarl of wild animals, the fifty negroes sprang toward the
center of the room. Sergeant Wilson was first. With a cry of: "Kill him!
kill him!" he bounded over a bunk, and landed within three feet of the
officer, revolver upraised. As he did so, the officer lifted the lantern
to a level with his own face. The sergeant stopped. The whole circle
halted, as though Circe had transfixed them. They had recognized the
"Ole Cap'n."

"Well, Wilson." At the sound of the voice the old negro's countenance
changed instantly. It became the face of a man in mortal anguish, as
indeed he was. In that moment the scales had fallen from his vision. He
saw his position clearly in the light of the sorrowful glance from the
"ole Cap'n's" eyes. It was as though the main pillar of the heavens had
been pulled out, and the skies were thundering down about