Seated in front of a cheerful blaze, we smoked and talked—Mordaunt, Mohun, Landon, and myself—until the shades of evening drew on.
Landon told me of his life at “Bizarre,” near the little village of Millwood, through which we had marched that night to bury his dead at the old chapel, and where he had surrendered in April, 1865. Arden and Annie lived near him, and were happy: and if I would come to “Bizarre,” he would show me the young lady whom I had carried off, that night, from the chapel graveyard, on the croup of my saddle!
Landon laughed. His face was charming; it was easy to see that he was happy. To understand how that expression contrasted with his former appearance, the worthy reader must peruse my episodical memoir, Hilt to Hilt.
Mohun’s face was no less smiling. He had lost every trace of gloom.
He gave me intelligence of all my old friends. General Davenant and Judge Conway had become close friends again. Will and Virginia were married. Charley was cultivating a mustache and speculating upon a new revolution. Tom Herbert and Katy were on a visit to “Disaways.”
“Poor Nighthawk is the only one whom I miss, my dear Surry,” said Mohun. “He died trying to save me, and I have had his body taken to Fonthill, where it is buried in the family graveyard.”
“He was a faithful friend; and to be killed on that very last morning was hard. But many were. You had a narrow escape, Mohun.”
“Yes, and was only preserved by a Bible.”
“A Bible?”
“Do you remember that I was reading by the camp fire, when you came to visit me on the night preceding the surrender?”