"Such Northern newspapers as yours, which have—in the past, at least—been inclined to criticise the unprovoked invasion of Virginia, it is desired by the authorities that such newspapers should be treated with consideration. You follow me, sir?"
"With strict attention." Mavering leaned forward, his hands on the burned turf. His feet dangled against the bank.
"Distinguished consideration. You will mention that attitude, no doubt."
"No doubt at all."
"Good-morning, sir."
"Good-morning, colonel."
The troop departed with crowded thud of hoofs and scatter of sand.
Mavering watched them out of sight, then slid down the bank and picked up his hat. He lifted the head of the prostrate horse, but the eyes were dull, the throat full of blood; unbuckled the bridle and slung it over his arm. The long, yellow level of the road-bed to the nearest curves was empty in both directions. He was quite alone in the desolation. He muttered and hummed in profoundest bass. "Singular game—'Plaidie to the angry airt'—recondite, astrological. Make a note of it; cavalry officers as a class are eccentric and deep. It's not my funeral. It appears to be the anchorite's. 'The brightest jewel in my crown'"—He crossed the road-bed, picked his way eastward into the woods, long-stepping, bridle on arm, gaunt and black, over the black ground among the gaunt, black stumps of the charred trees—"Wad be my queen."