By the time she was dressed she was joined by Mrs. Whately, who looked serious indeed. Before they could descend to the lower hall, Madison, haggard and gloomy of aspect, intercepted them. Looking at his cousin's red eyes and pale face, he asked abruptly, "What's the matter?"
"Do you think I am accustomed to these sights and sounds?" she answered.
"Oh," he said, in a tone which seemed to her heartless, "it's an old story to me. Mother, I must speak alone with you a moment."
She turned back with him to her room, meantime saying, "Louise, I do not think you had better go down without me."
The girl tremblingly returned to her apartment, fearing that now she might be forced to confront her own actions. But she was conscious of a sort of passive courage. Mad Whately's anger, or that of others, was a little thing compared to the truth that men were dead and dying all about her.
"Mother," said her son, "I had cursed luck last night. I wish I had slept on the rain-soaked ground near my prisoners," and he told her what had happened.
"Oh, Madison!" sighed Mrs. Whately, "I wish this experience would teach you to be more guided by me. Louise cared nothing for this Yankee, except in a sort of grateful, friendly way. Through him, you could have done so much to disarm—"
"Oh, well, mother, the milk is spilled. If possible, let the whole affair be kept from her knowledge."
"Yes, I suppose that will be the best way. If she hears about it, we must try to explain by the usages of war. Now, Madison, you are cool. Let experience be your teacher, for you MUST face the truth. You must either give her up—"
"I'll never give her up."