“Are the Union troops in charge?” he asked. “Yes, sir. They got some of the fire out, I heard tell. But that's not the worst now--a body can't set her foot in the street, it's so full of drunken roaring trash, black and white. It's good Mr. Roselle and Mr. McCall and Mr. John are here,” she declared again; “they could just finish off anybody that offered to turn a bad hand.” This, Elim felt, was incongruous with his reception yesterday. Still he made no inquiry. The breakfast finished, he relapsed once more on his pillows and heard the key stealthily turn in the door from the outside. He told himself, without conviction, that he must rise and join his command. The war, he knew, was over; the courage that had sustained him during the struggle died. The simple question of the colored woman had largely slain it. His own personality, the vision of his forthcoming life and necessity, rose to the surface of his consciousness. Elim realized what had drawn, him to his present situation--it had, of course, been the memory of Rosemary Roselle. The days when he--an assistant to a professor of philosophy and letters--had read and marked her essays seemed to lie in another existence, infinitely remote. How would he excuse his presence, the calling of her name before the house? This was an inopportune--a fatal--moment for a man in the blue of the North to make his bow to a Richmond girl, in the midst of her wasted and burning place of home. He decided reluctantly that it would be best to say nothing of his connection with her academic labors, but to depart as soon as possible and without explanation of his first summons.... Rosemary Roselle--the name had clung persistently to his memory. It was probable that he would see her--once. That alone was extraordinary. He marveled at the grim humor of circumstance that had granted him such a wildly improbable wish, and at the same time made it humanly impossible for him to benefit from it. VII The leisurely progress of his thoughts was interrupted by hasty feet without; the bolt was shot back and his door flung open. It was the colored woman--the Indy of the essay--quivering with anger and fear. “Capt'n,” she exclaimed, gasping with her rapid accent, “you come right down to the dining room, and bring that big pistol of yours. There's two, two----” Words failed her. “Anyhow you shoot them! It's some of that liberty you brought along, I reckon. You come down to Miss Rosemary!” She stood tense and ashen, and Elim rose on one elbow. “Some of our liberty?” he queried. “Did Miss Roselle send for me?” “No, sir, she didn't. Miss Rosemary she wouldn't send for you, not if you were the last man alive. I'm telling you to come down to the dining room.... We've tended you and--” “Well,” he demanded impatiently, “what do you want; whom shall I shoot?” “You'll see, quick enough. And I can't stand here talking either; I've got to go back. You get yourself right along down!”