“Cursed stuff!” he suddenly exclaimed, setting the glass down violently. “I want drink--real drink--to-day!” The woman looked at him curiously, and said quietly:-- “What is the matter?” Her companion’s brows were knit until the shaggy masses united over the gloomy eyes. Beneath burned a lurid fire. “I have seen _him_ again--General Davenant,” he said, in a low voice; “it is the second time.” As he uttered these words, Darke seemed the prey of some singular emotion. “It was at Gettysburg first,” he continued. “He was leading the charge, on the third day, against Cemetery Heights. I was there by accident. They were repulsed. When he rode back, he was carrying a bleeding boy in his arms through the smoke. I recognized his tall form and gray hair; and heard his voice in the midst of the cannon, as he cheered on his men.” The speaker’s face had flushed. His breast rose and fell. “That was the first time,” he said. “The second was the other day when he was riding among the enemy’s guns near Bristoe--I made him out with my glasses.” Darke bent down, and gazed at the floor in silence. The fire in the dark eyes had deepened. His heavy under lip was caught in the large, sharp teeth. All at once a ringing laugh disturbed the silence. There was a mocking intonation in it which was unmistakable. “General Davenant!” exclaimed the woman. “Well, who is General Davenant?” Darke looked at the mocking speaker sidewise. “Who is General Davenant?” he said. “Is it necessary that I enlighten you, madam? He is my bugbear--my death’s head! The sight of him poisons my life, and something gnaws at me, driving me nearly mad! To see that man chills me, like the hand of death!” The woman looked at him and then began to laugh. “You do unbend your noble strength, my lord!” she said, “to think so brainsickly of things!” throwing into the word, “brainsickly,” exaggerated stage-rant. “One would say,” she continued, “that the brave Colonel Darke had the blues to-day! Take care how you meet Colonel Mohun in this mood! The result might be unfortunate.” Darke made no reply for some moments. He was gazing with knit brows upon the floor. Then he raised his head. “You return to the subject of your friend,” he said, coldly. “Yes. The subject is agreeable.” “Well, I can give you intelligence of him--unless Swartz has anticipated me.” “What intelligence?” “Your friend Mohun is in love--again!” The woman’s face flushed suddenly. “With whom?” she said. “Ah! there is the curious part of the affair, madam!” returned Darke. And in a low tone he added:-- “The name of the young lady is--Georgia Conway.” The woman half rose from her chair, with flashing eyes, and said:-- “Who told you that?” Darke smiled. There was something lugubrious in that chilly mirth.