“Can’t they?” said Iris, warming to the encounter. (Iris rather liked a difficult subject.) Then, “Oh, I forgot we were going so soon,” she added, with a little sigh. “But I wonder why the Captain never brought him to call upon us?” “Simply because he won’t be brought,” replied the “other young lady.” “I will tell you what he is like, Iris,” I said, for I had noticed the young soldier often. “He is like the old Indian description of the St. Johns River: ‘It hath its own way, is alone, and contrary to every other.’” Review over, we went on to the post cemetery, beyond the barracks, the Captain accompanying us, glittering in gold-lace. “Were there any encounters in or near St. Augustine during the late war?” began Aunt Di, in a determined voice. Time was short now, and she had decided to cut the Gordian knot of Mokes; in the mean time the Captain _should not_ get to Iris unless it was over her dead body. “No,” replied Antinous. “The nearest approach to it was an alarm, the gunners under arms, and the woods shelled all night, the scouts in the morning bringing in the mangled remains of the enemy--two Florida cows.” “A charmingly retired life you must lead here,” pursued Aunt Di; “the news from the outside world does not rush in to disturb your peaceful calm.” No, the Captain said, it did not rush much. Four weeks after President Fillmore’s death they had received their orders to lower the flag and fire funeral guns all day, which they did, to the edification of the Minorcans, the Matanzas River, and the Florida beach generally. The military cemetery was a shady, grassy place, well tended, peaceful, and even pleasant. A handsome monument to all the soldiers and officers who fell during the long, hard, harassing Seminole war stood on one side, and near it were three low massive pyramids covering the remains of Major Dade and one hundred and seven soldiers, massacred by Osceola’s band. [Illustration: MILITARY CEMETERY.] “There is a dramatic occurrence connected with this story,” said Miss Sharp, sentimentally. “It seems that this gallant Major Dade and the other young officers attended a ball here in St. Augustine the evening before the battle, dancing nearly all night, and then riding away at dawn, with gay adieux and promises to return soon. That very morning, before the sun was high in heaven, they were all dead men! So like the ‘Battle of Waterloo,’ you remember: ‘There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry.’ I do not think this incident is generally known, however.”