Stay, was not Barry the name--Yes, it was the very name he had heard coupled with Joscelyn's that night while he lay hiding in the freezing attic. "She is sitting on the stair with Captain Barry." The very tones of the speaker came back to him, bringing again that thirsty desire to open the door and look for her which he had not been able to resist, though life itself might pay the forfeit. He went back to the pallet, and bent down that he might see the face of his patient. So this was the man who had won her away from the rest of her company, the man to whom she had bent down so low that from the rear only the dark crown of her hair could be seen as she sat on her steps--this was the man to whose love tale she had listened smilingly, while he himself was a prisoner hiding for his very life. A lady-killer, Dunn had said; and well he could believe it from the traces of manly beauty still lingering in the suffering face. A fierce jealousy tore at his heart. Evidently, from his ramblings, Joscelyn had listened to this other's wooing, and had written him letters, while she mocked him and sent him never so much as one little line in answer to all the pages he wrote her. He had always known that other men would love her,--it could not be otherwise with her sweetness and her beauty,--but always in his thoughts she had kept herself for him. Had it been a false hope; had she loved this brave Briton who called upon her with such pathos of tenderness? If so, then was his own dream-castle in ruins. By and by, just before the end, there came a lucid hour. The wounded man turned his eyes questioningly upon his nurse. "I found you after the fight, so far in our lines that your own men had missed you in their retreat, and the surgeon left you in my care," Richard said gently. "To die? Yes, I see it in your eyes." "You fell at the head of your men, as a soldier wishes death to find him." The other smiled faintly, "My mother will perchance be a little comforted by that. You will write her?" "Yes--And Joscelyn?" "Joscelyn?--how do you happen--?" "You talked of her in your delirium. She lives in the Carolina hill country. I, too, know her and--love her." And then each told something of his story to the other; and they clasped hands as brave men can when enmity and prejudice and jealousy are swallowed up in the wide sympathy that lurks forever in the precincts of the Great Shadow. "And when the war is over, and I tell her again of my love," said Richard, with that impulsive generosity that was ever one of his characteristics, "I will tell her also of yours--and mayhap she will choose rather to cherish your memory than to give herself to me."