With this smartness on her lips Peg broke into downright merriment. The little witch was never so charming!
That evening I was sitting alone with the General; each of us silent and within himself, wrapping his own fancies about him like a cloak. I know not on what uplands of conjecture the General's thoughts were grazing; for myself, I was dwelling on Peg, for I could still feel that soft, warm collar of her two arms clasping my neck.
It is trenching on the wondrous, too, how the sweet image of a woman will train one's soul for war. No sooner would I take Peg upon the back of my meditations, than they straightway went plunging off to her enemies, and to tire themselves with vain circlings of how best to refute the malice of her foes and return upon their wicked heads the most of cruelty. Commonly I might be held as one not beyond touch of mercy, and indeed I have spared a painted Creek when he stood helpless. But I doubt me if Peg's foes, when by some sleight of fate they had fallen within my power, would have found a least loophole of relief. Of a verity! I think I might have looked long on their writhings ere my heart was touched or my hands raised to stay their tortures.
While I sat in this blood-mood, and shedding in imagination the lives of ones who would persecute our innocent, my glance was caught by the General's pistols lying near by on a table. They were of that long, duelling breed belonging with the times, and the General kept them as bright and new as he kept his honor.
“And why are those on parade?” I asked, pointing to the weapons.
“It is the day of the year,” said the General, and his steady voice was low, “whereon I killed Dickenson. This is the one I used,” and he stretched his long arm and offered it for my inspection. It had a ribbon of black about the butt. “That is not for Dickenson,” he explained; “it is for her.” Here he indicated that miniature of his wife from which he would never be parted, where it rested on the mantel and looked down upon us with the painted eyes.
“You speak in a queer way,” I said; “do you regret killing the man?”
“No,” he returned, half sadly; “I do not regret killing him.”
“Tell me of it,” I urged. “I was not about, and Overton went with you to the field.”
The General never named his fight with Dickenson to others, but I was sure he would tell the tale to me. In good truth, I had not asked for it, save that, knowing him far better than I knew myself, I saw what was in his manner to make me believe he would be the lighter after the relation.