The man seemed overwhelmed with mortification and distress. No one at Minneconjou had ever known him to take so much as a glass of wine. No one at Minneconjou among either officers or men ever really knew him at all, for Blenke kept his own counsel, lived entirely to himself, was neat as a new pin, prompt and accurate on duty, smart in dress--more so than many of his officers, if truth be told--ready, respectful and in fine a model soldier. But he had no friends nor intimates; he had no confidants, unless we except Priscilla, to whom he had told much more than Sandy Ray, when told, would for a moment believe. He came before the court after two days' incarceration, neat and trim as though just off inspection. He stood with swimming eyes before the desk, pleaded guilty throughout, declined to summon a soul to say a good word for him or his general character, would not even glance at the group of officers hovering inquisitively about, would not even plead "first offense" or urge a syllable in mitigation of sentence, even though the allegations against him, as the court intimated to his captain, "seemed piling it on." One specification might well have covered the entire tale of his misdoing, but he stood accused of absence from quarters between taps and reveille, of presence in premises where he had no possible right to be, and finally of utter drunkenness. Blenke pleaded guilty to all, and humbly said that, had there been more accusation, he would have done the same, for he knew nothing of what occurred after fifteen minutes at Skidmore's somewhere toward midnight. Now, the court wished to know and the listeners wished to hear some explanation of his having turned up so far from the beaten track; of his having, when so drunk, managed to walk so far; of his having, in fine, entered the yard of Major Dwight's quarters. What could have suggested that? But Blenke knew no more than the dead. The only quarters of late he ever visited were those of Lieutenant Ray, where, said Blenke--and here the woe in his visage was indeed pathetic--he should never again dare show his face. Time had been--a happy time--when he had daily, almost hourly, duties at the quarters now occupied by Major Dwight, whom he so honored; but that was while his kind friends of Lieutenant Ray's household were still the occupants. Possibly in his dazed condition that memory was working in what was left of his brain. There was nothing to excuse or explain his wandering thither now, said Blenke. He had no mercy to ask. He deserved none. So the case was closed with a sizable fine, and the accused sent back to his company.