The tall grave figure with the thoughtful eyes and the chevroned sleeve was a picture of soldierly deportment, and, as he came into the tent of Major Henry Falkins and stood respectfully at attention, the battalion commander looked up, with a pleased smile. "I have the captain's permission to speak to the major, sir," announced the infantry-man. Falkins nodded. "To-morrow is the Fourth of July, sir." "Yes, there is to be a parade in town. Have your men tuck their shirt-tails in." The major smiled at his little pleasantry. The mountaineers had long since abandoned their more exaggerated idiosyncracies. "It is concerning Private Newton Spooner, sir, that I want to speak." "What about him?" The Deacon told his story. He was shrewd enough to tell it with seeming frankness, even to the point of admitting that on that other day, now a year ago, he had bound Newt over for twelve months of truce. That period ended to-morrow. He spoke of the calendar in the private's tent, and Falkins' face darkened thoughtfully. "Don't you imagine he has forgotten that grudge?" questioned the officer. On the table before him lay an unfinished letter to a girl in Winchester. He had boasted in a paragraph of which the ink was still damp that his militia experiment had succeeded. "He has not forgotten it, sir. He has not changed it." The Deacon shook his head with conviction as he spoke. "You're a mountain man yourself, sir. Did you ever know a mountain hatred to die while the man himself lived to harbor it? Did you ever make a pet of a rattle-snake?" The major was sitting at his camp table, littered with papers and paraphernalia. A swinging lantern cast its yellow flare on the canvas flies and his side arms, lying with his discarded blouse on his cot. Just inside the opening stood the sergeant, seeming rather gigantic against the black background of the night sky through the triangle of the raised tent flap. "I don't like to admit that." Falkins picked up the pen, and toyed with it absently. "I'm rather eager to see this boy make good. You are a mountain man, too. Your record for feud-hatred and homicide was once a rather full one, yet you came back to the hills, declaring for peace. Isn't the change in yourself permanent, sergeant?" Falkins had made the personal application as an illustration and he made it smilingly; but the Deacon's face wore for a moment an expression of deep pain. "I hope, sir," he replied respectfully, "that my record speaks for itself. But I had been living in the outside world. He has known only the mountains--and prison." "And now he knows the army!" The officer spoke eagerly. "The service is stronger than the individual. It will grip him. If we can arouse his ambition--" "It won't help to make mistakes, sir. To-morrow Private Newton Spooner becomes a menace to your life. Until midnight to-night you are safe." For a while there was silence, then Major Falkins took up his pen again.