"Trifles light as air, become proofs as strong as Holy Writ."
"Oh, no; you're mistaken, Father! Why, the poor fellow can't walk."
"But," replied the gruff voice of the old man, "he don't know where his regiment is."
Without further words the young fellow walked off. When the old man came back to the porch, where I had been sitting telling the old lady a sorrowful tale about my home, etc., he began:
"Where did you say you got your wound?"
"Why, it was a trifling hurt on the instep; it only became troublesome because I couldn't keep from using my foot."
Then the old lady chipped in with:
"Shall I send Mammy to help you bathe it with warm water, before you go to bed?"
I declined this with profuse thanks, and begged that they would not trouble themselves about it; it was a mere trifle.
After some more questions from the old man, which I was able to parry, I was ready for bed, glad enough to get away from him, and determined to clear out as soon as possible. They put me into a room which was in the attic, which extended across the width of the house; from this room there were windows opening on to the roof before described (two dormer windows), one in front and the other directly opposite, opening onto the roof of the porch. Before getting ready to lie down, I took a good look at the surroundings from both of these windows. I had become so accustomed to this, going to bed in the enemy's country, not knowing the condition in which I should find myself when I'd waken, that it became a sort of a habit with me to take my bearings, that I might be able to escape in case of fire.