Not caring to admit a visitor, whom, of course, he surmised would be some young brother-officer full of the plans and projects of the mess, he made no reply to the summons, nor gave any token of his presence. The sounds, however, were redoubled, and with an energy that seemed to vouch for perseverance; and Conyers, partly in anger, and partly in curiosity, went to the door and opened it. It was not till after a minute or two that he was able to recognize the figure before him. It was Tom Dill, but without a hat or neckcloth, his hair dishevelled, his face colorless, and his clothes torn, while from a recent wound in one hand the blood flowed fast, and dropped on the floor. The whole air and appearance of the young fellow so resembled drunkenness that Conyers turned a stern stare upon him as he stood in the centre of the room, and in a voice of severity said, “By what presumption, sir, do you dare to present yourself in this state before me?” “You think I'm drunk, sir, but I am not,” said he, with a faltering accent and a look of almost imploring misery. “What is the meaning of this state, then? What disgraceful row have you been in?” “None, sir. I have cut my hand with the glass on the barrack-wall, and torn my trousers too; but it's no matter, I 'll not want them long.” “What do you mean by all this? Explain yourself.” “May I sit down, sir, for I feel very weak?” but before the permission could be granted, his knees tottered, and he fell in a faint on the floor. Conyers knelt down beside him, bathed his temples with water, and as soon as signs of animation returned, took him up in his arms and laid him at full length on a sofa. In the vacant, meaningless glance of the poor fellow as he looked first around him, Conyers could mark how he was struggling to find out where he was. “You are with me, Tom,--with your friend Conyers,” said he, holding the cold clammy hand between his own. “Thank you, sir. It is very good of you. I do not deserve it,” said he, in a faint whisper. “My poor boy, you mustn't say that; I am your friend. I told you already I would be so.” “But you 'll not be my friend when I tell you--when I tell you--all;” and as the last word dropped, he covered his face with both his hands, and burst into a heavy passion of tears. “Come, come, Tom, this is not manly; bear up bravely, bear up with courage, man. You used to say you had plenty of pluck if it were to be tried.” “So I thought I had, sir, but it has all left me;” and he sobbed as if his heart was breaking. “But I believe I could bear anything but this,” said he, in a voice shaken by convulsive throes. “It is the disgrace,--that 's what unmans me.” “Take a glass of wine, collect yourself, and tell me all about it.” “No, sir. No wine, thank you; give me a glass of water. There, I am better now; my brain is not so hot. You are very good to me, Mr. Conyers, but it 's the last time I'll ever ask it,--the very last time, sir; but I 'll remember it all my life.”