"He has disappeared," and the lady of the plantation gave her nephew some of the particulars.
Harry was invited into the house, and he remained to lunch, in the meantime telling of the general progress of the war.
"Frankly, I wish it was at an end," he said. "I hate to see one section of our glorious country fighting the other. It is not right."
During the talk it developed that Colonel Stanton was lying at a house about half a mile distant, up the bay road.
"He acts very queerly," said Harry Powell, "just as if his wound had affected his mind."
"Can we do anything for him?" asked Mrs. Ruthven.
"I do not know of anything now. But perhaps I'll think of something later, aunt. I do not wish the colonel to suffer any more than is necessary. He is a thorough gentleman."
"I feel you are right, Harry. He has given me an entirely different idea of Yankees from what I had before," returned Mrs. Ruthven warmly.
The lady of the plantation became deeply interested in the wounded colonel's case, and when the young surgeon went away she had one of the negroes of the place hitch up a horse to the carriage and drive her over to where the wounded officer lay.
The colonel was in something of a fever, and hardly recognized her. For a long time he kept muttering to himself, but she could not catch his words.