“General Sheridan,” he said, striving to control his voice, “General Custer’s last words to me were that I was to tell you who I am.  I do not know what he meant, but he said you would have news for me.”

“Indeed!” in surprise, stiffening in his chair.

“Yes, sir—­my name is Hamlin.”

“Hamlin!  Hamlin!” the General repeated the word.  “I have no recollection—­why, yes, by Gad!  You were a Confederate colonel.”

“Fourth Texas Infantry.”

“That’s it!  I have it now; you were court-martialed after the affair at Fisher’s Hill, and dismissed from the service—­disobedience of orders, or something like that.  Wait a minute.”

He rapped sharply on the table, and the door behind, leading into the other room, instantly opened to admit the orderly.  In the dim light of the single lamp Hamlin saw the short, stocky figure of a soldier, bearded, and immaculately clean.  Even as the fellow’s gloved hand came sharply up to his cap visor, Sheridan snapped out: 

“Orderly, see if you recognize this man.”

Erect, the very impersonation of military discipline, the soldier crossed the room, and stared into the unshaven face of the Sergeant.  Suddenly his eyes brightened, and he wheeled about as if on a pivot, again bringing his gloved hand up in salute.

“Eet vas Colonel Hamlin, I tink ya,” he said in strong German accent.  “I know heem.”

The Sergeant gripped his arm, bringing his face about once more.

“You are Shultz—­Sergeant-Major Shultz!” he cried.  “What ever became of you?  What is it you know?”

“Wait a minute, Hamlin,” said Sheridan quickly, rising to his feet.  “I can explain this much better than that Dutchman.  He means well enough, but his tongue twists.  It seems Custer met you once in the Shenandoah, and later heard of your dismissal from the service.  One night he spoke about the affair in my quarters.  Shultz was present on duty and overheard.  He spoke up like a little man; said he was there when you got your orders, that they were delivered verbally by the staff officer, and he repeated them for us word for word.  He was taken prisoner an hour later, and never heard of your court-martial.  Is that it, Shultz?”

“Mine Gott, ya; I sa dot alreatty,” fervently.  “He tell you not reconnoisance—­charge!  I heard eet twice.  Gott in Himmel, vat a hell in der pines!”

“Hamlin,” continued Sheridan quietly, “there is little enough we can do to right this wrong.  There is no way in which that Confederate court-martial can be reconvened.  But I shall have Shultz’s deposition taken and scattered broadcast.  We will clear your name of stain.  What became of that cowardly cur who lied?”

Hamlin pressed one hand against his throbbing temples, struggling against the faintness which threatened mastery.

“He—­he paid for it, sir,” he managed to say.  “He—­he died three days ago in Black Kettle’s camp.”