He read it a great many times; it was his only diversion while awaiting transportation at the old Hygeia Hotel, where, in company with hundreds of furloughed officers, he slept on the floors in his blanket; he read it on deck, as the paddle-wheeled transport weighed anchor, swung churning under the guns of the great Fortress—­so close that the artillerymen on the water-battery could have tossed a biscuit aboard—­and, heading north-east, passed out between the capes, where, seaward, the towering black sides of a sloop of war rose, bright work aglitter, smoke blowing fitfully from her single funnel.

At Alexandria he telegraphed her:  “Your letter received, I am on my way North,” and signed it with a thrill of boyish pride:  “Philip O. Berkley-Arran, Capt.  Cavalry, U. S. V.”

To his father he sent a similar telegram from the Willard in Washington; wasted two days at the State, War, and Navy for an audience with Mr. Stanton, and finally found himself, valise in hand, waiting among throngs of officers of all grades, all arms of the service, for a chance to board his train.

And, as he stood there, he felt cotton-gloved fingers fumbling for the handle of his valise, and wheeled sharply, and began to laugh.

“Where the devil did you come from, Burgess?  Did they give you a furlough?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Well, you got more than I. What’s the matter; do you want to carry my bag?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t have to.”

“No, Captain. . . .  If you don’t object, sir, I’ll carry it.”

They found seats together; Philip, amused, tried to extract from Burgess something besides the trite and obvious servant’s patter—­something that might signify some possibility of a latent independence—­the germ of aspiration.  And extracted nothing.  Burgess had not changed, had not developed.  His ways were Philip’s ways; his loftier flights mounted no higher toward infinity than the fashions prevailing in the year 1862, and their suitability to his master’s ultimate requirements.

For his regiment, for its welfare, its hopes, its glory, he apparently cared nothing; nor did he appear to consider the part he had borne in its fluctuating fortunes anything to be proud of.

Penned with the others in the brush field, he had done stolidly what his superiors demanded of him; and it presently came out that the only anxiety that assailed him was when, in the smoke of the tangled thickets, he missed his late master.

“Well, what do you propose to do after the regiment is mustered out?” inquired Philip curiously.

“Wait on you, sir.”

“Don’t you want to do anything else?”

“No, sir."’

Philip looked at him, smiling.

“I suppose you like my cigars, and my brandy and my linen?”

The ghost of .a grin touched the man’s features.

“Yes, sir,” he said with an impudence that captivated Philip.