"He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. The men nearly lynched him as it was."
"I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all strange?" Here for over a year we two have been plotting against you, and now, at the last, you're the only friend we have. "Where is he?"
"Down below, under guard. You shall see him whenever you feel like it. Is there any one else you want to see, Hollins?"
"Any one—any one? Ah, God! Yes, with a longing that burns. It is her face. It is she—Bessie!" His hand steals feebly into his breast, and he drags slowly forth a little packet of oiled silk. This he hugs close to his fluttering heart, and his eyes seek those of the young soldier standing there so strong, so self-reliant and erect. His glance seems envious, even now, with the fast-approaching angel's death-seal dimming their light, and the clammy dew gathering on his brow.
"It was your picture I sent her, just as you seem to stand there now. It was I who won her, but she thinks I looked like you."
"Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a voice that trembles despite every effort at self-control, and trembles, too, through the very coldness of the tone. "Colonel Putnam is not far off. There are others whom you might like to see; and shall I send Rix to you?"
"No—not now—no use. Promise me this, Abbot. No matter where or how I'm buried—never mind coffin, or the flag, or the volleys, or the prayers; I don't deserve—They won't help me. You see to it, will you, that this is buried on my heart? It's her picture, and some letters. Promise."
Abbot slowly bows his head.
"I promise, Hollins, if it will comfort you."
"If there were only some way—some way to tell her. I loved her so. She might forgive when she knew how I died. You may see her, Abbot. Stop! take these three letters; they're addressed to you, anyway. Take them to her, by and by, and tell her, will you? but let the picture go with me."