The girl’s wits were so much more nimble than mine that she had staggered under the news, recovered herself and done much to remove the boxes from the trap-door before I could turn to help her. Then it hurt me a little, I confess, that she had not a look for me, or a word. All her thoughts were with Marion. She flew to the ladder, descended it, and vanished, as if I had not existed, or as if I had not for twenty-four hours spent myself in the effort to undo the misfortune which I had brought upon her! It was foolish of me to feel this, and more foolish to resent it. But I did both and that so keenly, that I was in no haste to descend. The news was good, her father was safe, and that was enough for her. That was all for which she cared. Why should I go down among them, whoever they were! There are times when we are all children, and stand aloof in sullenness, saying that we will not play. True, I had not done much for her—she had played her own game, it seemed. But I had done what I could. So it was Marion who presently, cool and neat and smoking the eternal cigar, climbed up to me. He took in the wretched room with an appreciative eye. “Home of the patriot!” he said, smiling. “This is what you drive us to, Major.” “It’s as full of fleas,” I cried peevishly, “as a starving dog!” “I know,” he said. “The Carolina flea is grand. But I suppose that you’ve not heard the news? We’ve hoodwinked you again, Craven.” This time his tone was more grave but his eyes still twinkled. “Wilmer walked past your sentries at nine o’clock last night, and he’s not a hundred miles away at this moment and as free as air.” “Thank God!” I said. And I meant it. “Yes, you can’t fight a people, Major,” he continued. “You can’t fight a people. You may be what you like on your side of the big water, but here you’re no more than a garrison! You’re like a blind man plunging hither and thither among people who see!” “Suppose you descend to particulars,” I said coldly.