General Vayne, however, held hospitality as the first element of religion, and it was abhorrent to him that a guest should by any mischievous mischance be rendered uncomfortable in his house. But he was not helplessly dismayed; he thought himself possessed of tact equal to any emergency, and he demonstrated this claim by bolting incontinently from the subject. The old lady beamed upon the equivocal captain with smiling eagerness to make amends. The girl’s face was grave, but in her luminous eyes lurked a freakish delight in the whole misapprehension. Captain Estwicke was not in the habit of being considered amusing, but if he inwardly resented it he made no sign. General Vayne had returned to the loss of the timber. “The aspect of the country would be almost prairie-like but for that elevation and those frowning redoubts,” he said, waving his hand toward the western windows through which the huge earthworks were visible. “There are very peculiar scenic effects here now and then--very peculiar, sir, indeed. A horseman there near Fort Despair, will loom up gigantic”--lowering his voice impressively--“mysterious, wonderful. He seems a bit of materialized poetry. He looks far more like a gallant knight pricking across the plain in quest of noble adventure, than”--effective _diminuendo_--“a ploughman going out to bed up land for cotton.” “Is that the work we used to call Fort Despair?” exclaimed Estwicke, as if with sudden recognition. Something strained and unnatural in his voice struck the girl’s attention. She noted too the look in his eyes--at once eager and shrinking--as he leaned his elbow upon the worn arm of the chair and bent forward to the window. Little as she knew of him she knew it was an uncharacteristic look. She did not understand it. She only apprehended the emotion that swayed him as one groping in the dark is conscious of the proximity of an unaccustomed, it may be a fearful presence. “Fort Despair,” repeated General Vayne, absorbed in reminiscence--he had lost his right arm there. “Appropriately named, too, it seems, even at this late day.” “Ah, I know!” cried the stranger passionately. “I feel its meaning! Every weed that stirs in the wind is voiced with a terrible suggestion.” Then he seemed to check himself. He leaned back in his chair and said no more. He was panting slightly; his face was flushed; a sharp pain was expressed in his eyes. “The man,” thought Marcia, watching him in a tumult of feeling, half sympathy, half inquisitive amaze, “has a morbid horror of that battlefield. And a reason for it!” General Vayne was fighting the day over again. He saw his brigade in line of battle; he was canvassing once more the problematic strength of the opposing force; he was regretting again, as he had often regretted, that he had not disregarded his orders and pushed on through the timber; if his arm had been spared him one half hour longer! How could he notice the stranger now; he had no thought even of his guest!