"Willard Rallston, Esq., Omaha.
"Why no letter? When you coming? Act now. Ferguson gone.
"G."
Being in town he dropped in at one or two places of popular resort, and had more or less conversation with the hangers-on at the open bars. He drank more freely than usual, too, and while by no means off his balance, mentally or physically, when at midnight he turned his horse's head homewards, he was rather more capable of any deed of meanness than would ordinarily have been deemed expedient. His quarters reached, he stood for a moment gazing along the dark and silent row. Suddenly, soft and sweet on the clear night air he heard the notes of a guitar, then a tenor voice, well trained, rich and melodious. He well knew there was no officer in the garrison who could sing like that. Who was it? Where was it?
Slipping through the back-yard and keeping close under the high board fence, Mr. Gleason tiptoed up the row until behind Truscott's. A convenient knot-hole enabled him to peer through, and his eye lit on the dim figure of a man enveloped in cavalry overcoat standing beneath the rear window. This, then, was the troubadour.
A moment or two previous, Miss Sanford, wearied after a long day of anxiety and care, was roused from a broken sleep by a soft, sweet tenor voice beneath her window, and the tinkling accompaniment of a guitar. Each word came floating through the silent night,—
"Rings Stille herscht—es schweigt der Wald,
Vollendet ist des Tages Lauf;
Der Vögleins Lied ist längst verhallt,
Am Himmel ziehn die Sterne auf.
Schlaf wohl, schlaf wohl,
Und schliess die schönen Augen zu;
Schlaf wohl, schlaf wohl,
Du süsser, lieber Engel Du."
She knew instantly who it must be. She noiselessly slipped to the door leading into Grace's chamber, and the dim night-light showed her sweet friend sound asleep. Returning, she crept to the window, shrouded as it was by the inner curtain. No sign would she give that the song was heard, but what woman would not have risked one peep? Finishing his song, the serenader turned on his heel, gave one long, lingering look at the darkened window, then strode out of the rear gate and away towards the band quarters. Drawing the curtain farther aside, Miss Sanford plainly recognized the walk and bearing. She followed him with her eyes until he had gone full a hundred yards, was about to let fall the curtain, when, crouching like panther, sneaking from shadow to shadow, there slipped past the gate the dim figure of a second man in stealthy pursuit. Who could this be? The first, of course, was Sergeant Wolf.