proceeded to catechise him as to his orders.  The soldier had been well taught, and knew all his “responses” by rote,—­far better than Buxton, for that matter, as the latter was anything but an exemplar of perfection in tactics or sentry duty; but this did not prevent Buxton’s snappishly telling him he was wrong in several points and contemptuously inquiring where he had learned such trash.  The soldier promptly but respectfully responded that those were the exact instructions he had received at the adjutant’s school, and Buxton knew from experience that he was getting on dangerous ground.  He would have stuck to his point, however, in default of something else to find fault with, but that the crack of a whip, the crunching of hoofs, and a rattle of wheels out in the darkness quickly diverted his attention.

“What’s that, sentry?” he sharply inquired.

“A carriage, sir.  Leastwise, I think it must be.”

“Why don’t you know, sir?  It must have been on your post.”

“No, sir; it was ’way off my post.  It drove up to Lieutenant Hayne’s about half an hour ago.”

“Where’d it come from?” asked the captain, eagerly.

“From town, sir, I suppose.”  And, leaving the sentry to his own reflections, which, on the whole, were not complimentary to his superior officer, Captain Buxton strode rapidly through the darkness to Lieutenant Hayne’s quarters.  Bright lights were still burning within, both on the ground-floor and in a room above.  The sentries were just beginning the call of one o’clock when he reached the gate and halted, gazing inquisitively at the house front.  Then he turned and listened to the rattle of wheels growing faint in the distance as the team drove away towards the prairie town.  If Hayne had gone to town at that hour of the night it was a most unusual proceeding, and he had not the colonel’s permission to absent himself from the post:  of that the officer of the day was certain.  Then, again, he would not have gone and left all his lights burning.  No:  that vehicle, whatever it was, had brought somebody out to see him,—­somebody who proposed to remain several hours; otherwise the carriage would not have driven away.  In confirmation of this theory, he heard voices, cheery voices, in laughing talk, and one of them made him prick up his ears.  He heard the piano crisply trilling a response to light, skilful fingers.  He longed for a peep within, and regretted that he had dropped Mr. Hayne from the list of his acquaintance.  He recognized Hayne’s shadow, presently, thrown by the lamp upon the curtained window, and wished that his visitor would come similarly into view.  He heard the clink of glasses, and saw the shadow raise a wineglass to the lips, and Sam’s Mongolian shape flitted across the screen, bearing a tray with similar suggestive objects.  What meant this unheard-of conviviality on the part of the ascetic, the hermit, the midnight-oil-burner, the scholarly recluse of the garrison?  Buxton