But the Colonel came not, although the clock had struck eleven. She suggested that I might wish to retire. It was a thought of her, and not of myself, that led me to rise and say that I was ready. She lighted a candle and showed me to my room. I went to bed thinking that, after all, my Mary was not her equal.
An hour or so later the Colonel's voice awoke me. He was calling my name in a loud, imperative tone, and tramping about the house as if in search of me. I lay still, not knowing what to do. Soon the Colonel entered my room with a candle in his hand.
“Heron, you rascal, get out of this room!” said he, loudly. “Didn't I say you were to sleep with me?”
Before I could answer he had gathered up my shoes and stockings and flung them into the hall. He took my clothing under his arm while I got out of bed.
“Forward, march!” he commanded, and I followed through the dusky halls to his bedroom in silence. I observed that he walked unsteadily, and I knew the nature of his affliction and felt some fear of him.
“Heron,” said he, with great frankness, “I want company—I need you right here.”
He sang loudly, as I helped him to draw his boots:
“''Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone.'”
In a moment he rose and seized me by the shoulders and crowded me against the wall, by way of demonstrating his strength.
“You are iron, boy, but I am steel,” he said, between his teeth, as he lightly thumped my head upon the figured paper. I made no answer.