It was then just midnight, and the sergeant of the guard, coming to close the festivities, went back with an unlooked-for prisoner, who, every inch of the way, cursed and foamed and fought, and swore hideous vengeance on Case for a cur and a coward, so that the fury of his denunciation reached even the general's quarters, where peace and congratulation were having sway, and lovers were still whispering ere parting for the night--reached even the ears of Willett himself, reclining blissfully at the open window, with Lilian's hand in his, her fair head pillowed on his shoulder. There in the open hearth lay the ashes of the letters, unread, unopened, that had come to accuse him, but even the fires of hell could not burn out the memory of the wrong that, after all, had tracked him here unerringly, for in the few half-drunken, all-damning words that reached him, Harold Willett heard the trumpeting of his own disgrace. His sin had found him out. And, barely an hour before, he had sworn to her that the Stella of whom he had babbled in his dreams was indeed but a favorite hound he had lost in the Columbia; that no Stella had penned a line to him in years, and, taking her sweet, upturned face between his palms, with the soft, tender brown eyes looking fondly down into the trustful, beautiful blue, he had said: "My darling, like other men, I have had fancies in boyish days, and even a flame or two, but never a love, _real_ love, until you came into my life. In a week now I must be with my general at Prescott, but every day, every moment of my absence, you will be the only girl in all the world to me. I shall shrink from the mere touch of another hand. I shall count the hours until you become my wife." And she believed him, utterly, poor soul. He even believed himself. CHAPTER XXV.