Stuart’s head sank, and he uttered a weary sigh.
“They will not let me alone,” he muttered, “and yet I am here fighting for my country. But I defy them to take my good name away from me, Surry!”
And he rose to his feet.
“General Lee knows me! Jackson knew me! I have the regard of the one, and I had the love of the other. What do I care? If my children only will not hear these ignoble charges! One can never hear them, Surry—my beloved little Flora! She died while I was fighting near Middleburg in the fall of ‘62—that nearly broke me down—”
And Stuart paused and covered his eyes with his hand. Between the fingers I saw a tear.
For a moment his breast heaved—something like a sob issued from the brave lip, whereon the heavy mustache trembled.
“I think of her often—I shall never get over her death, Surry!”{1} he murmured. “They think me hard and cold, and bad perhaps—it is nothing. Since she died I care less for men’s opinion, and only try to do my duty, till the ball comes that will end me.”
{Footnote 1: His words.}
And dashing a tear from his eyes, Stuart walked to the door of his tent, from which he gazed forth upon the stars.
Five minutes passed thus, and I did not speak. Then all at once I heard Stuart call out: “Orderly!”