"Let me tell you, Sir, there is no law on the statutes under which justice could be meted out to these devils for the nameless crime which ends in death by murder or by suicide of the helpless victim, a crime which these wretches committed only in their black hearts—thanks to you, Sir."
As he spoke, the town marshall approached followed by the negro pastor of the local church and a few of his followers. Silently they lowered the bodies to the ground, placed them upon improvised stretchers, and carried them to the potters field outside the village, where rough coffins and graves were ready to receive them.
As Mr. West and Percy returned to Westover they discussed the lands which in the main were lying abandoned on either side of the road.
"Here," said Mr. West, as he paused on the brow of a sloping hillside, "was as near to Westover as the Union army came. The position of the breastworks may still be seen. The Southern army lay across the valley yonder. These two trees are sprouts from an old stump of a tree that was shot away. About seventeen hundred confederate dead were buried in trenches in the valley, but they were later removed. The federal dead were carried away as the Union army retreated. We never learned their number. For three days Westover was made headquarters of the confederate officers, and my mother worked day and night to prepare food for them."
They stopped at Westover for a few moments, Percy remaining in the "buckboard" while Mr. West reported to his family what they had seen in Montplain.
"Our report," said Mr. West, "hideous and horrible as it is, will help to restore the child to calm and quiet. To speak frankly, Sir, occurrences of this sort, sometimes with the worst results, are sufficiently frequent in the South so that we constantly feel the added weight or burden whenever the sister, wife, or daughter is left without adequate protection."
The remaining hours of the morning were devoted to a drive over the country surrounding Westover; and Mr. West consented to Adelaide's request that she be allowed to drive Percy to the station at Montplain, where he was to take the afternoon train for Richmond. She chose the "buckboard" but insisted upon driving.
They talked of their school and college days, of the books they had read, of anything in fact except of the experiences of the past twenty-four hours. Even when they entered the valley no shadow crossed Adelaide's face; but as they neared the station her voice changed, and as Percy looked into her winsome, frankly upturned face, she said:
"Have I truly been pardoned for my cruel words last evening? I am sure you were as manly and noble as any man could have been."
"And I am sure you were the bravest little woman I have ever known," replied Percy, "and I admire you the more for calling me a coward when you thought I was running away; so there is nothing to pardon I am sure."