“My God, you have poisoned me.”
“You have poisoned yourself,” replied Mrs. P. with provoking complacency.
“Why did you not tell me it wasn’t wine?”
“You did not ask me,” replied Mrs. P.
Now, although the man never found out, Mrs. P. knew he had only taken a heavy dose of iron filings, a medicine prescribed as a tonic, and put in a bottle, from which she had forgotten to remove the original label.
One of the most painful of all the stories of cruelty and insult is told by a lady who was living at Walhalla, S. C., which was visited by the enemy on May 1, 1865, three weeks after the surrender at Appomattox. There were but four persons in the little household: the writer of the sketch; a brother, who was fifteen years old; a one-armed soldier, an older brother, who had returned from the army a mere wreck of his former self; and lastly his wife. The one-armed soldier is spoken of as Earle, and his wife as Iris. Here are the more striking passages:
“In a second of time the rooms swarmed with armed men intent on finding the treasure. Fearful oaths and threats were heard as they explored the house from cellar to garret, succeeded by shouts of savage exultation as the heavy old chests were drawn from their hiding places and the rich contents exposed to the greedy gaze of the plunderers. Looking at the wealth before them, their cry for gold was for a time silenced, and with coarse jests and triumphant laugh they began the work of appropriation. Haversacks and pockets were filled, and when no dint of pressing could put more into them, snowy cases were drawn from pillows and converted into sacks into which they stored their booty.
“With feelings difficult to analyze, I followed the robbers upstairs, determined, if possible, to rescue some of the jewels at least. These now lay scattered over the floor, and the men, down on their knees, were making selections. So intent were they on their work that at first they did not observe my entrance. I watched them quietly until I saw the wretch, styling himself Colonel, take up a ring, which, more on account of associations than for any intrinsic value, I highly prized. ‘You will not take that,’ I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. ‘That ring was the gift of one now dead, and I cannot afford to lose it.’
“‘Some damned lover I suppose, whose bones I trust are now bleaching on the battlefield! Well, give me a kiss and you shall have it.’
“I recoiled, with the disgust I felt depicted in my face.