“Knew him?  Yes,” speaking almost unconsciously, his incredulous eyes still on the inscription, as though fearful it might vanish.  “That man was either my best friend, or my worst enemy; under heaven, I know not which.  Why, it is like a miracle, the finding of this bag out here in the desert.  It is the clue I have been searching after for nearly five years.”  He seemed to pull himself together with an effort, realizing her presence.  “Excuse me, Miss McDonald, but this thing knocked me silly.  I hardly knew what I was saying.”

“It means much to you?  To your life?”

“Everything, if I can only trace it back, and thus discover the present whereabouts of the original owner.”

“Was that your regiment, then—­the Fourth Texas Infantry?”

He bowed his head, now looking frankly at her.

“Would you mind telling me your rank?”

“I became Captain of ‘B’ Company after the fight at Chancellorsville; we served in Virginia under Massa Robert, and lost every commissioned officer in that affair.”  He hesitated to go on, but she prompted him by a question: 

“And then what?  What was it that happened?  Don’t be afraid to tell me.”

His gray eyes met hers, and then turned away, his lips pressed together.

“Nothing until the day we fought at Fisher’s Hill,” he said slowly.  “Then I was dismissed from the service—­for cowardice.”

“Cowardice!” repeating the word in quick protest.  “Why, how could that be?  Surely your courage had been sufficiently tested before?”

“Cowardice, and disobedience of orders,” he repeated dully, “after I had been under fire almost night and day for three years; after I had risen from the ranks and commanded the regiment.”

“And you had no defence?”

“No; at least, none I could use; this man might have saved me, but he did not, and I never knew why.”

“Who was he?”

“My senior captain, detailed on Early’s staff; he brought me the orders verbally I was afterwards accused of disobeying.  I was temporarily in command of the regiment that day with rank as major.  There was a mistake somewhere, and we were horribly cut up, and a number taken prisoners.  It was my word against his, and—­and he lied.”

She took the haversack from him, studying the scarcely legible inscription.

“‘E.  L. F.’  Are those the letters?”

“Yes; they stand for Eugene Le Fevre; he was of French descent, his home in New Orleans.”

“You knew him well?”

“I thought so; we were at school together and afterwards in the army.”

She looked across at him again, touched by the tender echo of his voice; then leaned forward and placed one hand upon his.

“You have not spoken about this for a long while, have you?”

“No,” his eyes lighting up pleasantly, “hardly thought of it, except sometimes alone at night.  The memory made me savage, and all my efforts to ascertain the truth have proven useless.”