“Only a scout.” “Right, and this lady is our spoil! She is handsome, is she not? But a more curious face I have never seen. White cheeks and red lips--a sort of devil and angel mixed! Who is she, I wonder, and what was her errand. Something is under it. She gave her name as ‘Mrs. Darke,’--and her horse made me break the tenth commandment, Surry! Lady and courser are splendid.” “She is certainly a beauty.” “And what eyes!” “Dangerous.” Stuart remained silent for some moments, and then I heard him sigh. “Do you know, my dear Surry,” he said, “that if people heard us talk in this way, they would call us libertines--immoral--any thing? There are two things that people will not disbelieve about me--that I am impure, and a drunkard! Do you know what a good man was heard to say of me the other day? ‘Stuart would be one of the greatest soldiers in the army, if he did not drink so hard!’ [1] And others add: ‘if he were not a libertine.’ Well, need I defend myself to _you_, from these charges? I promised my mother in my childhood, never to touch ardent spirits, and a drop has never passed my lips, except the wine of the communion.[2] I know I need not tell you that I am equally guiltless of the other imputation. That person does not live who can say that I ever did any thing improper of that description. And yet I am a drunkard--a libertine--I, who never touched drink, and love but one person in this world!” [Footnote 1: This was actually said of Stuart.] [Footnote 2: His words] Stuart’s head sank, and he uttered a weary sigh. “They will not let me alone,” he muttered, “and yet I am here fighting for my country. But I defy them to take my good name away from me, Surry!” And he rose to his feet. “General Lee knows me! Jackson knew me! I have the regard of the one, and I had the love of the other. What do I care? If my children only will not hear these ignoble charges! _One_ can never hear them, Surry--my beloved little Flora! She died while I was fighting near Middleburg in the fall of ‘62--that nearly broke me down--” And Stuart paused and covered his eyes with his hand. Between the fingers I saw a tear. For a moment his breast heaved--something like a sob issued from the brave lip, whereon the heavy mustache trembled. “I think of her often--I shall never get over her death, Surry!”[1] he murmured. “They think me hard and cold, and bad perhaps--it is nothing. Since she died I care less for men’s opinion, and only try to do my duty, till the ball comes that will end me.” [Footnote 1: His words.] And dashing a tear from his eyes, Stuart walked to the door of his tent, from which he gazed forth upon the stars. Five minutes passed thus, and I did not speak. Then all at once I heard Stuart call out: “Orderly!” “Yes, sir,” came from the man on post near the tent. “Tell Sweeney to come and bring his banjo!”