“The President; for I have applied to him personally.”
“It is rather early for me to go against the wishes of the President,” and he looked at Hugh; “but you are directed to report to me for orders, and I must give them to you.”
“And I must join.” Hathaway spoke in a resigned manner.
“And you will stay in Washington until further orders,” looking at him kindly.
“Colonel, I thank you.”
Cobb had made one more friend.
After an hour at the club, the trio parted; Hathaway to his hotel, and Cobb and Hugh to their rooms.
That night, as he lay upon his bed, Cobb dreamed of Mollie Craft and her radiant beauty, and of Marie Colchis, his child love. The faces of both came in visions before him. He seemed translated to a dark and dreary region, and wandered about sad and alone. No human soul greeted his approach. Alone and desolate of heart, he pursued his way. At last, after ages of misery, he came upon a solitary grave in the desolate waste. Stunted and gnarled, a solitary oak grew at its foot. A headboard, worn and battered by the elements, lay, torn up from its setting upon the ground. A rivulet of water, small and silent in its course, flowed away and sank into the sand.
Moving forward, he read the inscription on the moldy board:
“Junius Cobb and the heart of Marie Colchis.”