I sought the low ground bordering the river.  My companions had gone; I would go.  There was none to stop me; none to know my going.  I wept and laughed.  I had no fear.  Nothing was present—­all was past and future.  I was strong and well.  With my healing had come a revolution of another kind—­a physical change which I felt would make of me a different creature from the poor moody rebel in rags, or even the groping Yankee spy of the day and of the year before.

How I loved and pitied the men of Company H!  They were devoted and true.  No matter what should befall them, they would continue to be true and loyal to their instincts of duty.  Misfortune, even the blackest disaster, seems before them; but I know them for courage and for fortitude to be the equals, at least, of any who may conquer them.  Their soldierly honour will be maintained even when they go down in defeat, as they must; never will shame lay its touch upon their ways, no matter what their destiny.  I honour them, more now since I know the might of their enemies; I love them; I am proud of their high deeds, but I am done with them.  In my heart alone can I do them reverence.  My hand must be against them, as it has been for them.

Raetions?  Rations!  The Federals say rations!  Why did I not follow that clew?

* * * * *

Poor old Willis! ... he refused to strike! ...

* * * * *

I went up the sloping edge of the river’s brink, seeking a place to cross.  My mind was wondrously alert.  At my right the dawn was lighting the sky.  Behind me and at my left, I could hear the well-known sounds of a moving army—­an army which had been my pride and now must be my enemy.  How often had I followed the red flag!  How I had raised my voice in the tumult of the charge—­mingling no dissentient note in the mighty concert of the fierce old rebel yell!

What will they think of me?  I know full well what they will think, and the knowledge makes my heart ache and almost cease to beat.  They will say—­some of them—­that Jones has gone to the Yankees; not at once will they say that, but in a week or two when hope of my return has been abandoned—­and a few will say that Jones has lost his mind and has wandered off.  The first—­the unkind—­will be right, and they will be wrong.  The others—­the generous—­will be utterly wrong.  I have not lost my mind; I have found it, and found it “for good.”  The report of my desertion will come to Adjutant Haskell and to Dr. Frost, perhaps.  Will they tell?  I hope not.  Will they suspect the truth?  I wish it, but I cannot hope it.

Let Berwick Jones be dead and buried and forgotten; let Jones Berwick live from this night as he never lived.  The Doctor says men live forever.  I believe it.  If man can live through the worse than death which I have passed through alive, he is eternal.  I shall never die.  On through the ages!  That bright star—­almost the only one left in the graying sky—­has but the age of an infant.  I saw it born!