A sudden outbreak of angry voices in the street ahead startled Stewart from his thoughts. A section of soldiers was halted before a house at whose door a violent controversy was in progress between their sergeant and a wrinkled old woman.
"I tell you we must have him," the sergeant shouted, as though for the twentieth time.
"And I tell you his wife is dying," shrieked the woman. "He has permission from his captain."
"I know nothing about that. My orders are to gather in all stragglers."
"It is only a question of a few hours."
"He must come now," repeated the sergeant, doggedly. "Those are the orders. If he disobeys them—if I am compelled to use force—he will be treated as a deserter. Will you tell him, or must I send my men in to get him?"
The sunken eyes flamed with rage, the wrinkled face was contorted with hate—but only for an instant. The flame died; old age, despair, the habit of obedience, reasserted themselves. A tear trickled down the cheek—a tear of helplessness and resignation.
"I will tell him, sir," she said, and disappeared indoors.
The sergeant turned back to his men, cursing horribly to himself. Suddenly he spat upon the pavement in disgust.
"A devil's job!" he muttered, and took a short turn up and down, without looking at his men. In a moment the old woman reappeared in the door. "Well, mother?" he demanded, gruffly.