This young orderly, whose name was Arman, we persuaded—­by what arguments I am not bound to say—­to clothe himself in female attire and personate a lady.  When we had him arrayed to our satisfaction—­and a charming girl he looked—­he was conducted to a sofa in the office of the adjutant-general.  That officer was in the secret, as indeed were all excepting Haberton and the general; within the awful dignity hedging the latter lay possibilities of disapproval which we were unwilling to confront.

When all was ready I went to Haberton and said:  “Lieutenant, there is a young woman in the adjutant-general’s office.  She is the daughter of the insurgent gentleman who owns this house, and has, I think, called to see about its present occupancy.  We none of us know just how to talk to her, but we think perhaps you would say about the right thing—­at least you will say things in the right way.  Would you mind coming down?”

The lieutenant would not mind; he made a hasty toilet and joined me.  As we were going along a passage toward the Presence we encountered a formidable obstacle—­the general.

“I say, Broadwood,” he said, addressing me in the familiar manner which meant that he was in excellent humor, “there’s a lady in Lawson’s office.  Looks like a devilish fine girl—­came on some errand of mercy or justice, no doubt.  Have the goodness to conduct her to my quarters.  I won’t saddle you youngsters with all the business of this division,” he added facetiously.

This was awkward; something had to be done.

“General,” I said, “I did not think the lady’s business of sufficient importance to bother you with it.  She is one of the Sanitary Commission’s nurses, and merely wants to see about some supplies for the smallpox hospital where she is on duty.  I’ll send her in at once.”

“You need not mind,” said the general, moving on; “I dare say Lawson will attend to the matter.”

Ah, the gallant general! how little I thought, as I looked after his retreating figure and laughed at the success of my ruse, that within the week he would be “dead on the field of honor!” Nor was he the only one of our little military household above whom gloomed the shadow of the death angel, and who might almost have heard “the beating of his wings.”  On that bleak December morning a few days later, when from an hour before dawn until ten o’clock we sat on horseback on those icy hills, waiting for General Smith to open the battle miles away to the right, there were eight of us.  At the close of the fighting there were three.  There is now one.  Bear with him yet a little while, oh, thrifty generation; he is but one of the horrors of war strayed from his era into yours.  He is only the harmless skeleton at your feast and peace-dance, responding to your laughter and your footing it featly, with rattling fingers and bobbing skull—­albeit upon suitable occasion, with a partner of his choosing, he might do his little dance with the best of you.