But to forty soldiers of the Riverpark battalion the solaces of summer fell exclusively within the grounds of the academy. For them there were no long walks in the country, no boating on the river, no pilgrimages to the city. Yet they acknowledged the justness of their punishment, and bore it bravely.
Brightly was with them again, quite recovered from his illness. He studied hard; his deportment was beyond question; he was a model soldier. He went about among the delinquents with cheerful face and hearty manner, and inaugurated for them such mild pleasures as could be enjoyed in delinquency. By counsel and example he reconciled the unfortunates to their fate, and by the very strength of his presence diffused among them a feeling of hope, of confidence, of good-will, which inspired them to higher effort, to better work, to nobler manhood.
The last week of the school-year came. It was to be, according to custom, a week of camp-life. Already the white tents were dotting the eastern slope of the lawn; already the schoolroom was deserted and the recitation-rooms were empty; the sentinels were pacing their beats through shade and sunshine, and the grounds of Riverpark were alive with bodies of moving troops.
It was the afternoon of the first day in camp, and the hour for dress-parade. Many people had come up from the city to witness the evolutions of the troops, and the east porch was bright with the summer costumes of the ladies who had gathered there.
Brightly, marching in the ranks, felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret. If he were only adjutant to-day! if he could only feel the weight of his plume, see his sword flashing in the sunshine, hear his voice in words of command! It was such a splendid place,—that post of adjutant; the ceremonial set down for him was so knightly, so dignified, so grand! The folly of disobedience and revolt impressed itself upon him even more at that moment than it had done during the hard weeks of his punishment.
Another thing worried and perplexed him. Something was going on among the boys that they were keeping hid from him. There were secret conferences that he had unwittingly disturbed, whispered words that were not meant for his ears; once a paper was whisked suddenly out of his sight to which some one had been just in the act of affixing his signature.
He hoped that there was no new mischief brewing; he could not quite bring himself to believe that, under the calmness and good discipline of the time, rebellion was again struggling for an outbreak.
But the dress-parade was on. The boys had never drilled better. Their white-gloved hands moved in perfect unison, and the points of their bayonets flashed into line through the sunlight as quickly and sharply as a lightning-stroke. Every one admired and praised the movements.
At that point in the military ceremonial where the adjutant faces to the commanding officer and gives him the result of the orderly sergeant’s reports, something unusual occurred.
Finkelton was acting as adjutant. The point of his sword was still all but touching the ground, and the words of the report were scarcely out of his mouth, when Major Drumlist, who was in command, said,—