Few in that small army had witnessed the horrors of the battle-field; but, like all “green” troops, conceiving that there was much of romance connected with the deadly field, and that heroes were created by a single brave deed, the mass of Sigel’s men were eager to meet the foe. It had been given out that the entire army was to join this division on the prairies, and that an advance was to be made at once against Price, who was then at Cassville, some forty miles distant, to the southward. “I think we can safely count upon a desperate battle by the day after to-morrow,” exclaimed one of a party of five, seated within a captain’s tent—four of whom were at a table, with cups and wine before them. The fifth person was making himself generally useful, acting in the capacity of a servant. “You have fleshed your maiden sword at Springfield, and I did not suppose you would be anxious for another fight. I confess I can not gaze upon such scenes without a shudder, and, if duty would permit, I would willingly sheathe my sword forever.” “Captain Hayward, you are low-spirited to-day,” answered the first speaker. “I am, indeed, Lieutenant Wells. And can you wonder? My sister is here!” “I only wish mine was!” “That is a rash wish, my friend. She would be exposed to much danger, and I never want mine to gaze upon a battle-field. No! where _men_ cut each other’s throats, delicate, sensitive women should not be near!” “Could you find no way in which to send her from Springfield to St. Louis?” asked Wells. “I could have done so by the mail coach but, you know, the entire distance of one hundred and thirty miles, from Springfield to Rolla, or to Tipton upon the other route, is infested with guerrillas, and I feared to send her. I preferred she should brave the dangers of the camp or even the battle-field with me.” Captain Hayward bent his head upon his hands and was silent. It was some moments before any one ventured to speak. All appeared to be oppressed with a strange sadness. At length one of the party, Captain Gilbert, slapping him familiarly upon the shoulder, and endeavoring to speak gayly, said: “Come, come, Harry, this won’t do! you must shake off every vestige of blues. You are suffering still from the wound you received in the Warsaw skirmish, and it makes you low-spirited. No doubt your sister will be perfectly safe, and I know she had much rather be with you, to assist you should you need her aid, than to be safe in St. Louis, enduring the tortures of suspense.” Hayward made no reply. At this moment, a female, delicate and fair, came tripping lightly into the tent, her face wreathed in smiles, and her eyes sparkling with delight; but, as she caught sight of Hayward, she paused, and gazed upon him for a moment, exhibiting the most intense interest; then advancing, and placing her hand upon his shoulder, she spoke: “Brother!”