In a room of the “Barbour House” on Fleetwood Hill, Stuart was writing a dispatch to General Lee.
It was nearly sunset, and the red light was streaming through the windows. On the floor lay a number of wounded men, groaning piteously. Busily attending to their wants were two young girls—the daughters of Judge Conway, whom I had seen on the night of the ball.
The young ladies, I afterward discovered, had been on a visit to the family occupying the Barbour House; had courageously remained during the whole of the battle—and they were now busily attending to the wants of the wounded.
I was gazing at the eldest—the superb beauty with the disdainful eyes, who had held that wit-combat with her circle of admirers—when Stuart finished his dispatches, and turned around.
“Any reports?” he said briefly to a member of his staff.
“None, general—except that Colonel Mohun is reported killed.”
“Mohun! It is impossible! He drove the enemy, and was unhurt. I would not swap him for a hundred, nor a thousand of the enemy!”
“Thank you, general!” said a sonorous voice behind us.
And Mohun entered, making the military salute as he did so.
In his bearing I could discern the same cool pride, mingled with satire. There was only one change in him. He was paler than ever, and I could see that his right shoulder was bloody.