"What!" cried the Captain; "you, too?" Her gown was no whiter than her face, but she came to him steadily. "Wallace," she said, "you are a soldier, and I am a soldier's wife. I could not help hearing what they said. Don't think I blame you--I know you will do what is right. Captain Wells and I will stand by you!" He took her into his arms, and then a hoarse murmur came to their ears. She started away from him in fear. "What is it?" she cried. "It's only the barracks," he answered, trying to smile. "Come, dear, come!" When Ronald opened the door, where the men were drinking heavily, the confusion was heard to the farthest limits of the Fort. "Boys," he cried, "it's all over--there's nothing any one of us can do!" Lieutenant Howard, the Doctor, and Captain Wells were standing together near the door, but he did not seem to see them. Straight to the middle of the room he went, and a soldier filled his glass. "Make merry while you can, my brave boys," he shouted, "for this is the last of life for us! To-night we are men--to-morrow we are food for the vultures! To-night we are soldiers--to-morrow we are clay! To-night we may sleep--to-morrow we wake to the knife, the scourge, and the flames! To-night, for the last time, we stand side by side--to-morrow we fight a merciless foe of ten times our strength! "If you have neither wife nor child, thank God that you stand alone. If you have, load your muskets and strike them down at sunrise to-morrow,--yes, stain your hands with their innocent blood that you may save them from something worse. Twelve hours of life remains--waste none of it in sleep! Fill your glasses to the brim and drink till the night is past. Pray that your senses may leave you--that your reason may be replaced by the madness of beasts! Pray for strong arms to-morrow--pray for a soldier's fate! Drink while the stakes are being put in place for us--drink to your ashes and the fall of Fort Dearborn--drink, boys--to Death!" The room had been deadly still while he was speaking, but now the cry rang to the rafters,--"To Death!" "Again," shouted Ronald, "fill your glasses once more! To the strong arm and the fearless heart--to the torture that waits for us to-morrow--to the red spawn of hell that is grinning at our gates--a toast to Death!" The door opened and Captain Franklin came into the room. Every man turned accusing eyes upon him save one. "To the Captain!" cried Wells, lifting his glass. He drank alone, since, for the moment, no one else moved. Then, with one accord, the wine was thrown to the floor and the sharp crash of glass followed it, as the deep-throated bell sounded taps--for the last time. CHAPTER XXII THE RED DEATH "Attention! Forward--march!"