With his face as white as marble, and his lips set firmly together, Paul Haverill stood in the midst of the noisy group which he tried to quiet. “Let us try him by jury,” he said, and something in his voice reassured the frightened, haggard wretch, who had seen his house burned down and his son shot before his very eyes, and of course expected no mercy. The trial by jury proved popular, and then Paul Haverill suggested that a judge be chosen in the person of some one who had lost a near friend in the war, and was of course competent to mete out full justice to the criminal—“Charlie, for instance,” and his eye fell on the boy, who had joined the crowd and was standing close by the prisoner. The boy caught his uncle’s meaning at once, and exclaimed: “Yes, let _me_ be the judge. My father was killed at Bull Run. My mother died of grief. Surely I may decide.” Charlie De Vere was a favorite with the men, who knew how staunch a Confederate he was, and, waiving the trial for want of time, they said: “Charlie shall decide whether we hang, drown, whip, or tar and feather the prisoner at the bar.” Then, with far more energy and fire than had characterized his vindication of the South, Charlie De Vere pleaded for the criminal, that they would _let him go_. “Just this once, for father’s sake, and mine, and Maude’s,” he said; and, at the mention of Maude, the dark brows began to clear, and the scowling faces grew more lenient in their expression, for Maude De Vere was worshiped by the rough men of the mountains, who, though they knew her sympathies were on the Union side, made an exception in her favor, and held her person and opinions sacred. For _her_ sake, they would let their captive go, giving him warning to leave the neighborhood at once, nor let himself be seen again in their midst while the war lasted. And thus it chanced that Will Mather had a companion in his wanderings, which were renewed the following day; the boy Charlie acting as guide through the most dangerous part of the way, and at last bidding him good-bye, with great tears in his eyes, as he said: “I hope you won’t be caught; but I don’t know, the woods are full of our soldiers. Travel at night, and hide through the day. Trust no one, but the negroes; and if you are captured, ask for mercy in sister’s name. Everybody knows Maude De Vere.” CHAPTER XXVIII THE DEAD ALIVE. It was the night of the third of July, the anniversary, as she supposed, of her husband’s death, and Rose was sitting up unusually late. She could not sleep for thinking of one year ago, and the white-faced man who lay upon the battle-field with the rain falling upon him.