“Madam, I have been the major’s friend ever since our childhood.  I played with him when we were boys together.  I grew up to manhood with him; I watched with pride his noble and successful career; I rejoiced when he married the lovely woman before me; and I went to the West with him.  Need I tell you that I loved him?  I loved him only less than you did.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Mrs. Wood.  “Whom are you referring to?”

“Why, to the major.  I say that your love for him alone was greater than mine; and I am—­”

“Your remarks are a mystery to me.  I have no attachment of that kind.”

“Call it what you will, madam.  I know how strong the tie was between you—­how deep the devotion which kept two loving souls in perfect unison.  And knowing this, of course I feel deeply that to wound either heart by telling of misfortune to the other is a task from which a man like me might very properly shrink.  But I have a duty to perform—­a solemn duty.  What would you say, my dear madam, if I should tell you that the major had lost a leg?  What would you say to that?”

“I don’t know.  If I knew a major who had lost a leg, I should probably advise him to buy a wooden one.”

“Light-hearted as ever,” said the general.  “Just as he told me you were.  Poor woman! you will need your buoyant spirits yet.  But, dear madam, suppose the major had lost not only one leg, but two; both gone; no legs at all; not a pin to stand on; now, how would that strike you?”

“Really, sir, this is getting to be absurd.  I don’t care whether your major has as many legs as a centipede or none at all.  If you have any business with me, please transact it as quickly as possible.”

“Madam, this is too serious a subject for jest The major has lost not only his legs, but his arms.  He is absolutely without limbs of any kind at this moment.  That’s as true as I’m sitting here.  Now, don’t scream, please.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea of screaming.”

“Well, you take it mighty cool, I must say.  But that’s not the worst of it.  All his ribs are gone, his nose has departed, and he only has one eye and a part of one shoulder-blade.  I pledge you my word that’s the truth.  I hardly think he will recover.”

“I shouldn’t think he would, in that condition; but, upon my life, I cannot see that the fact interests me at all.”

“Not interest you!  Well, that is amazing!  Not int—­Why, my goodness, woman, that’s not half of it.  The major’s scalp’s all gone; he hasn’t enough fuzz on his head to make a camel’s-hair pencil; he has a stake through his body, and he’s been burnt until he is all doubled up in a hard knot; and, in my private opinion, it’s mighty unlikely he’ll ever be untied and straightened out again.  If that doesn’t fetch you, you must have a heart of stone.”

“I don’t care anything about it, sir.  It’s none of my business.”

“Well, then, as long as you’re so indifferent, let me tell you, plump and plain, that the major’s dead as Julius Caesar!  The Indians killed him, burnt him and minced him up!  Now, that’s the solemn truth, and his last words to me were, ‘Break the news gently to Maria.’  You see the man loved you.  He cared more for you than you seemed to do for him.  He would have welcomed death if he had known you had ceased to love him.”