The night was wearing on. A form, closely enveloped, approached the tent of the commanding General. It proved to be the lady Alibamo.
“What is the will of our ‘daughter of the army?’” asked the General, kindly.
“It is that I may visit Lieutenant Wells, and bring him to my tent. I desire that an interview should take place between Miss Hayward and the doomed man.”
The General seated himself at his table, and penned a few words, which he handed to Mrs. Hinton. She glanced at the contents, and then falling at the feet of that officer, she seized his hand, and kissing it, sobbingly exclaimed:
“What! without his chains? God bless you! God bless—”
“There, there! Go! go! Don’t make me weep, or I won’t forgive you,” returned the veteran warrior, as he turned away.
Alibamo left his tent, and in a few minutes entered her own, in company with Lieutenant Wells, now free from all apparent restraint.
When Wells entered the tent, Miss Hayward was kneeling by the side of her camp cot, her face buried in the folds of its coverings. For several moments not a word was spoken, and, as Wells gazed upon the stricken sister, he trembled violently, while a groan of intense anguish escaped him.
Alibamo advanced, and gently touching her companion, said:
“Mamie, my darling, here is our friend, Lieutenant Wells.”