Darke did not dare to meet them. I had listened with amazement to those words, which indicated that the Federal officer was General Davenant’s son; then this sentiment of astonishment, profound as it was, had yielded to one of expectation, if I may so express myself. What I expected was a furious outbreak from the man of fierce and violent passions, thus taunted and driven to bay by the repeated insults of the general. No outburst came, however. On the contrary, the Federal officer bowed his head, and listened in silence, while a mortal pallor diffused itself over his swarthy face. His gaze was bent upon the ground, and his brows so closely knit that they extended in an unbroken ridge of black and shaggy hair above his bloodshot eyes. He sat his horse, in the light of the camp-fire,--a huge cavalier upon an animal as powerful and forbidding in appearance as himself,--and for more than a minute after the scornful outburst from General Davenant, Darke remained silent and motionless, with his eyes still fixed upon the ground: Then he raised his head, made a sign with his hand to an officer, and said, briefly:-- “Move back with the column--leave these prisoners here.” At the word, the column moved back slowly; the shadowy figures were lost sight of in the darkness; General Davenant, his son Charles, Darke, and myself, were left alone beside the camp-fire. Then the Federal officer, with a face over which seemed to pass “the shadow of unutterable things,” looked first with a long, wistful, absorbed glance toward the boy Charles, his brother--lastly, toward his father. “Why do you taunt me?” he said, in a low tone. “Will that result in any good now? Yes, I committed murder. I intended, if I did not commit, robbery. I killed--yes, I killed!--with a knife--as a murderer kills. But I do not wish to kill you--or Charley--or this officer--or rob you. Keep your life and your money. There is the road before you, open. Go; you are free!” General Davenant had sat his horse--the boy Charley beside him--listening in sullen wrath. As Darke ended, the general’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and he half drew it, by an instinctive movement, from the scabbard. “Well!” added the Federal officer, in the same low tone, with a deeper flush in his cheeks, “draw your sword, sir--strike me if you think proper. For myself, I am done with murder, and shrink from it, so that, if my father wishes to kill me, I will open my breast, to give him a fair opportunity. You see I am not altogether the murderous wretch you take me for. I am a murderer, it is true, and soiled with every vice--you see I am frank--but I will not resist, if you plunge your sword into my heart. Strike! strike! While I am dying I will have time to say the few words I have to say to you!”