The portrait was that of a young man--thin, quaintly amused, looking out of the frame at her from behind his spectacles. The mustache appeared to be slighter, the hair a trifle longer than the mustache and hair worn by the signal officer, Captain West. Otherwise, it was the man. And hope died in her breast without a flicker. Sitting there by the shaking window, with the daguerreotype in her clasped hands, she looked at the summer sky, now all stained and polluted by smoke; the uproar of the guns seemed to be shaking her reason, the tumult within her brain had become chaos, and she scarcely knew what she did as, drawing on both gauntlets and fastening her soft riding hat, she passed through the house to the porch, where the staff officers were already climbing into their saddles. But the general, catching sight of her face at the door, swung his horse and dismounted, and came clanking back into the deserted hallway where she stood. "What is it?" he asked, lowering his voice so she could hear him under the din of the cannonade. "The Moray matter.... I want two troopers detailed." "Have you nailed him?" "Yes--I--" She faltered, staring fascinated at the distorted face, marred by a sabre to the hideousness of doom itself. "Yes, I think so. I want two troopers--Burke and Campbell, of the escort, if you don't mind----" "You can have a regiment! Is it far?" "No." She steadied her voice with an effort. "Near _my_ headquarters?" "Yes." "Damnation!" he blazed out, and the oath seemed to shock her to self-mastery. "Don't ask me now," she said. "If it's Moray, I'll get him.... What are those troops over there, General?" pointing through the doorway. "The Excelsiors--Irish Brigade." She nodded carelessly. "And where are the signal men? Where is your signal officer stationed--Captain----" "Do you mean West? He's over on that knob, talking to Wilcox with flags. See him, up there against the sky?" "Yes," she said. The general's gimlet eyes seemed to bore through her. "Is that all?" "All, thank you," she motioned with dry lips. "Are you properly fixed? What do you carry--a revolver?" She nodded in silence. "All right. Your troopers will be waiting outside.... Get him, in one way or another; do you understand?" "Yes." A few moments later the staff galloped off and the escort clattered behind, minus two troopers, who sat on the edge of the veranda in their blue-and-yellow shell jackets, carbines slung, poking at the grass with the edges of their battered steel scabbards. The Special Messenger came out presently, and the two troopers rose to salute. All around her thundered the guns; sky and earth were trembling as she led the way through an orchard heavy with green fruit. A volunteer nurse was gathering the hard little apples for cooking; she turned, her apron full, as the Special Messenger passed, and the two women, both young, looked at one another through the sunshine--looked, and turned away, each to her appointed destiny.