Lamar looked gravely down at the low field-house and the figure at the gate. He thought he could see the small face and earnest eyes, though it was far off, and night was closing. "She is waiting for you, Charley. Go down. Good night, old chum!" If it cost any effort to say it, Dorr saw nothing of it. "Good night, Lamar! I'll see you in the morning." He lingered. His old comrade looked strangely alone and desolate. "John!" "What is it, Dorr?" "If I could tell the Colonel you would take the oath? For Floy's sake." The man's rough face reddened. "You should know me better. Good bye." "Well, well, you are mad. Have you no message for Ruth?" There was a moment's silence. "Tell her I say, God bless her!" Dorr stopped and looked keenly in his face,--then, coming back, shook hands again, in a different way from before, speaking in a lower voice,-- "God help us all, John! Good night!"--and went slowly down the hill. It was nearly night, and bitter cold. Lamar stood where the snow drifted in on him, looking out through the horizon-less gray. "Come out o' dem cold, Mars' John," whined Ben, pulling at his coat. As the night gathered, the negro was haunted with a terrified wish to be kind to his master. Something told him that the time was short. Here and there through the far night some tent-fire glowed in a cone of ruddy haze, through which the thick-falling snow shivered like flakes of light. Lamar watched only the square block of shadow where Dorr's house stood. The door opened at last, and a broad, cheerful gleam shot out red darts across the white waste without; then he saw two figures go in together. They paused a moment; he put his head against the bars, straining his eyes, and saw that the woman turned, shading her eyes with her hand, and looked up to the side of the mountain where the guard-house lay,--with a kindly look, perhaps, for the prisoner out in the cold. A kind look: that was all. The door shut on them. Forever: so, good night, Ruth! He stool there for an hour or two, leaning his head against the muddy planks, smoking. Perhaps, in his coarse fashion, he took the trouble of his manhood back to the same God he used to pray to long ago. When he turned at last, and spoke, it was with a quiet, strong voice, like one who would fight through life in a manly way. There was a grating sound at the back of the shed: it was Ben, sawing through the wicket, the guard having lounged off to supper. Lamar watched him, noticing that the negro was unusually silent. The plank splintered, and hung loose. "Done gone, Mars' John, now,"--leaving it, and beginning to replenish the fire. "That's right, Ben. We'll start in the morning. That sentry at two o'clock sleeps regularly." Ben chuckled, heaping up the sticks. "Go on down to the camp, as usual. At two, Ben, remember! We will be free to-night, old boy!" The black face looked up from the clogging smoke with a curious stare. "Ki! we'll be free to-night, Mars'!"--gulping his breath.