"He don't take enough account o' honor, an' the like, but it's for tryin' till keep his soul right," he used to say, excusingly, to Dode. "That's it! He minds me o' th' man that lived up on th' pillar, prayin'." "The Lord never made people to live on pillars," Dode said. The old man looked askance at Gaunt's worn face, as he trotted along beside him, thinking how pure it was. What had he to do with this foul slough, we were all mired in? What if the Yankees did come, like incarnate devils, to thieve and burn and kill? This man would say "that ye resist not evil." He lived back there, pure and meek, with Jesus, in the old time. He would not dare to tell him he meant to fight with the boys in the Gap before morning. He wished he stood as near to Christ as this young man had got; he wished to God this revenge and bloodthirstiness were out of him; sometimes he felt as if a devil possessed him, since George died. The old fellow choked down a groan in the whiffs of his pipe. _Was_ the young man back there, in the old time, following the Nazarene? The work of blood Scofield was taking up for the moment, he took up, grappled with, tried to put his strength into. Doing this, his true life lay drained, loathsome, and bare. For the rest, he wished Dode had cared,--only a little. If one lay stabbed on some of these hills, it would be hard to think nobody cared: thinking of the old mother he had buried, years before. Yet Dode suffered: the man was generous to his heart's core,--forgot his own want in pity for her. What could it have been that pained her, as he came away? Her father had spoken of Palmer. _That_? His ruled heart leaped with a savage, healthy throb of jealousy. Something he saw that moment made him stop short. The road led straight through the snow-covered hills to the church where the meeting was to be held. Only one man was in sight, coming towards them, on horseback. A sudden gleam of light showed him to them clearly. A small, middle-aged man, lithe, muscular, with fair hair, dressed in some shaggy dark uniform and a felt hat. Scofield stopped. "It's Palmer!" he said, with an oath that sounded like a cry. The sight of the man brought George before him, living enough to wring his heart He knocked a log off the worm-fence, and stepped over into the field. "I'm goin', David. To think o' him turnin' traitor to Old Virginia! I'll not bide here till meet him." "Brother!" said Gaunt, reprovingly. "Don't hold me, Gaunt! Do you want me till curse my boy's old chum?"--his voice hoarse, choking. "He is George's friend still"-- "I know, Gaunt, I know. God forgi' me! But--let me go, I say!" He broke away, and went across the field. Gaunt waited, watching the man coming slowly towards him. Could it be he whom Dode loved,--this Palmer? A doubter? an infidel? He had told her this to-day. A mere flesh-and-brain machine, made for the world, and no uses in him for heaven!