"You will come with us, if you please," said the colonel, with the stiff, military courtesy which he had never abated since his explosion about the picture.
"I trust it is to dinner, colonel," I said, with some gayety, which I really felt. "This mountain air of yours breeds hunger."
He made neither denial nor assent, but led the way down-stairs. The two men followed close behind me, as if bent upon preserving the fiction that I was a convict or criminal of some kind. Somewhat to my surprise, the colonel led the way into the large room which Grace Hetherill had called the great parlor. A new arrangement of its furniture had been made. A long table with chairs around it had been placed in the centre of the room, and drooping over it from the ceiling was a large Confederate flag. Five or six men, including Dr. Ambrose, all dressed in Confederate gray, were present.
The colonel saw my astonished and questioning look, and said,—
"I told you, Mr. West, that everything was to be done in accordance with military law. The Confederacy would not disgrace itself by acting otherwise. You are to have a fair trial."
All the men had risen to their feet and saluted the colonel. I was invited to take a chair at the foot of the table; all the others took their seats also. Dr. Ambrose again acted as secretary, the colonel presiding, and the court-martial began.
I saw nothing better than to fall in with the spirit of the thing. Let me repeat for the second time that I dislike bruises and undignified struggles, and I had no choice. Accordingly, I pulled a very grave and long face, and sat in silence, awaiting the questions that the military tribunal might propound to me.
"I think," said the colonel, "it would be just to give the prisoner a full and explicit statement of the charge against him."
"I think so, too," I said. "It would at least be interesting, if not important."
The colonel frowned at my flippancy.