“It will not be repeated,” he answered, his face stern. “I have taken steps to secure that.” I handed him the paper. “Very good,” he continued. “That is settled then?” “No,” I said, “not until I have thanked you for an intervention which saved my life.” “The good fortune was mine,” he replied courteously. And then with feeling, “Would to God,” he cried, “that I could have saved all as I saved you! There have been dreadful things done, damnable things, sir, in the last week. The things that make war—which between you and me is clean—abominable! And they are as stupid as they are cruel, whether they are done by your people or by mine! They are the things of which we shall both be ashamed some day. For my part,” he continued, “I believe that if the war had been waged on either side, with as much good sense as a Charles Town merchant, Horry or Pinkney, brings to his everyday business, the States would have been conquered or reconciled these twelve months past! Or on the other hand there would not have been one English soldier south of the St. Lawrence to-day!” I smiled. “My commission only permits me to agree to the first of your alternatives,” I said. “But I owe you a vast deal more than agreement. I won’t say much about it, but if I can ever serve you, I hope, Colonel Marion, that you will command me.” “I accept the offer,” he said frankly. “Some day perhaps I shall call upon you to make it good.” And then, “You were with General Burgoyne’s force, were you not?” “I was,” I answered. “I was on his staff, and surrendered with him at Saratoga. I have been—unlucky.” “Confoundedly unlucky!” he rejoined with feeling. “North and South!” “Miss Wilmer,” I began impulsively, “seemed to think—,” and then I stopped. Why had I brought in her name? What folly had led me into mentioning her? He saw that I paused and he shrugged his shoulders. He seemed to be willing to let it pass. Then he changed his mind, and spoke. “Do you know her story?” he asked. “She lost her mother very unhappily. Mrs. Wilmer was staying for her health at Norfolk in Virginia in ’76, when your people bombarded it—an open town, my friend. The poor lady, shelterless and in such clothes as she could snatch up, died later of exposure. My god-daughter was devoted to her, as she is to her father. Women feel these things deeply. Can you wonder?” “No,” I said gravely. “I don’t wonder. I knew nothing of this.” “I am sorry to say that that is not all,” he went on. “Her only brother, a lad of eighteen, fell into your hands in the attack on Savannah. He was embarked, with other prisoners, for the West Indies. He has not been heard of since, and whether he is alive or dead, God knows. These things eat into the heart. Do you wonder?”