THE MAJOR'S STORY
by W.H. Maxwell
[Chapter XI. from The Bivouac; or, Stories of the Peninsular War, volume II, Philadelphia, E.L.
Carey and A. Hart, 1837]
CHAPTER XI.
THE MAJOR'S STORY.
And heedless as the dead are they
Of aught around, above, beneath;
As if all else had passed away,
They only for each other breathe.
* * *
Who that hath felt that passion's power,
Or paused, or feared, in such an hour?
PARASINA.
Yes — Leila sleeps beneath the wave.
* * *
My wrath is wreak'd — the deed is done —
And now I go — but go alone.
THE GIAOUR.
"THERE is more romance," said Major O'Connor, "in real life, than in any fiction which the novelist
can imagine, and few men have journeyed through existence long, and not encountered something
touching on the marvellous. I never was a sentimental adventurer, and yet I have in my time met with
strange occurrences. In the story I am about to tell, I was an inferior actor — and of the other parties,
one was a lieutenant in the same company, and the lady I had seen, although I had never been
acquainted with her intimately.
At the time when the transaction occurred, I was a subaltern in the 8—th. The regiment was quartered
in a large garrison-town in the south of Ireland, and I had been for three months on leave. On
rejoining, I was presented at dinner to an officer who had come to us from another corps, and was
struck with his manner and address. He was a remarkably handsome man — at times a little of the
puppy; but when he pleased, his manners were very agreeable, and his conversation lively and amusing.
As we were both in the light company, we were a good deal thrown together, and hence I became
more intimate with Clinton than any officer in the regiment.
As the garrison was very full, and the barrack undergoing repairs, most of us were obliged to live out at
private lodgings. Clinton and I were cantoned in the same house, and had separate apartments, with a
drawing room in common. We breakfasted, and generally had coffee together in the evening. By
degrees — for my companion was in some matters exceedingly reserved — we became more intimate.
Gradually he became communicative. Much of what he was doing came under my observation; and I
was soon aware, from many circumstances I noticed, that he was engaged in an intrigue.
The house we lodged in was in the suburbs of the town, remotely situated, but not very distant from our
barrack. After mess we were in the habit of returning home tolerably early; for we had some desperate
hardgoers in the regiment, and if a man commenced another bottle after the stipulated dinner wine was
drunk, it was almost impossible to get clear of the late sitters before daylight. My companion, when at
home, always left a small portion of the window-shutter unclosed — this signal was understood; for,
almost every night, and at a particular hour, sand was thrown against the glass, and Clinton went out to
converse with an old woman, wrapped closely in a gray cloak. I remarked her frequently, but never
obtained a glimpse of her features, for the pains she took to conceal them from my view. She was, no
doubt, an emissary of Cupid; for Clinton had generally a note or letter to peruse or answer, when he
returned from his interviews with the old woman.
Sometimes, in place of a written reply, he followed the messenger directly. On these occasions he
always took his sword, and muffled himself in a large blue cloak that belonged to me, which, from its
size and colour, was better adapted to conceal the person than his own.
Clinton and I in age, height, and figure were exceedingly alike. We both wore light-infantry uniforms,
and at night might be readily mistaken for each other. Twice the old woman, when waiting for Clinton
addressed me in mistake; and I had repeatedly, when returning after dinner, been dogged almost to the
door of my lodgings, by a man wrapped in a drab great-coat such as the lower classes of the Irish wear,
and which, from its loose make, renders the figure very indistinct. The frequency of the occurrence
roused my curiosity — I strove to ascertain who the person was, under whose espionage I seemed
placed, but I never could succeed. He always kept some distance in the rear — if I walked quickly, he
mended his pace — if I loitered, he sauntered after me — if I halted, he stopped — in short, he regulated
his movements by mine, and always avoided coming to close quarters. One thing struck me as being
very singular — whenever I wore my own cloak, I was certain of being watched to the very door.
It was the evening before the catastrophe. The general had dined with us, and I had remained later at
the mess-table than usual. It was good starlight, for there was no moon. That morning, in passing a
cutler's shop, it occurred to me, from the constancy with which I was haunted by the unknown, that
some outrage was intended against my person, and I thought it prudent to be prepared. I accordingly
went in, and had my sabre ground and pointed. On this evening I had my own cloak and sword; and
before I cleared the first street, observed that as usual I was closely followed. Stimulated by wine, and
conscious of possessing an effective weapon, I determined to bring my pursuer to action; and halting
silently beneath a garden-wall where the road made a sudden turn, I waited for the enemy to close.
A minute brought us into contact. He turned the corner of the fence, and finding me ready to receive
him, sprang back two paces.
"Stand!" I shouted, as I unsheathed my sabre, "Stand! or I'll cut you down!"
"Back!" he replied, "or by Heaven I'll blow your brains out" — and I saw him present a pistol, which
he had drawn from underneath his coat. We stood within a few yards of each other for some moments
in a threatening attitude — I was the first to break silence, by demanding why he dared to follow me?
"To warn you to desist," returned a deep and disguised voice.
"Desist!" I exclaimed. "What am I to desist from?"
"The pursuit of one you never shall obtain!" was the reply.
"You are under some mistake."
"I am not," returned the unknown. "You have eluded my vigilance twice, and met her you best know
where. Attempt it a third time — and your fate is sealed!"
"I tell you, fellow, you are in error."
"No — no — Mr. Clinton, you are —"
"My name is not Clinton."
"Damnation! Have I been mistaken? May I inquire whom it is I talk to?" he replied.
"I am called O'Connor, and —"
"You lodge in the same house with —"
"Precisely so."
"Strange!" he muttered. "I would have sworn it. Height, cloak, figure — Ha! I see how they escaped
me. I was on the wrong scent, and they seized that opportunity of meeting. Pray, sir, have you been
ever watched home before!"
"Yes, a dozen times. If I am pursued again, I'll shoot the man that follows me."
"You had better leave that alone. It is a trade that two can work at" — he replied coldly. "But you will
not be incommoded again. A hunter with the game afoot, will not turn from it to run a drag, I fancy.
Farewell, sir. If you regard your comrade's safety, tell him to avoid the elm-tree walk in the
churchyard. He has been there twice too often — he will understand you perfectly. Good night, sir."
"Stop, friend. You have frequently escorted me home, I think I shall return the compliment."
"Indeed?" — he replied with a sneer. "If you are ambitious of heaven, and wish to make a vacancy in
the 8—th, I would recommend a trial of that experiment. Go to your lodgings, boy. I have no wish to
harm you, though I hate every man that wears your livery as I hate the devil. Go — once more, good
night."
He turned round the angle of the wall. A momentary surprise prevented me from following for a time.
When I did he was fifty paces off, and presently appeared to vanish from my sight. I walked rapidly
after; and when I reached the spot where he disappeared, found it a narrow passage between two garden
walls. I looked down the opening — it was dark as midnight — I listened — his footsteps had died away -
- it was useless to follow — I gave up the pursuit and returned to my lodgings.
Clinton was there before me.
"You are late to-night," he said. "Have you been serenading your mistress; or, like unhappy me,
waiting impatiently for the messenger of Cupid?"
"Serenading I have not been," I replied; "but I have been conversing probably with the messenger of
Cupid — if the aforesaid courier wears a frieze great-coat, and delivers his commands with a cocked
pistol."
"Indeed! What do you mean?"
"Why, that I have been mistaken for you — followed, until I got tired of being pursued; and when I
turned on the scoundrel, found I had but caught a Tartar."
"Go on, my dear fellow," said Clinton.
"I forced him to a parley, and he proved to be better provided for battle than myself. In short, we
parted as we met. In the dusk, it seemed, he mistook me; and when the error was ascertained, he gave
me a pleasant message for you, with an injunction to deliver it."
Clinton eagerly demanded what its import was; I repeated, as nearly as I could remember it, the
threatening language of the stranger.
"It is indeed a singular business altogether, George. I must make you my confident, and in the morning
will show you the lady, and afterwards acquaint you with a strange story. What said he about our
meetings?"
"That they had occurred twice; and if you valued life, to desist from a third attempt, and avoid the elm-
tree walk in the churchyard."
"Well," replied Clinton, "to-morrow you shall know more. It is late; and as we are to have a field day,
the sooner we are in bed the better."
We took our candles and separated.
The garrison review occupied the whole of the next morning; and it was scarcely over, when I was
obliged to go on the main guard. About two o'clock Clinton came to me, and asked me to walk out
with him. I put on my cap, and we strolled arm in arm into the town.
"George," he said, "I am so thoroughly convinced of your prudence, that I am going to intrust you with
my secret. I require the advice and assistance of a friend, and you are the one I would wish to confide
in."
I assured him that if secrecy were necessary, he might be certain of my discretion — and he continued:
"I find myself surrounded with difficulties — I would almost say danger; but rather than abandon the
affair, I would risk life freely. Would you wish to see the lady?"
"Faith! Clinton," I replied, "I have no small curiosity to see a person who has been the cause of placing
me under the espionage of as truculent a gentleman as ever man conversed with in a retired lane at
midnight."
"It shall be gratified," he said. "Do you observe yonder shop? It is the second from the corner of the
street."
"A linen-draper's?"
"Exactly so," he replied.
"Well, what next?"
"Go in — look for a handsome girl. There are several women attending in the shop; but it is impossible
to mistake Agnes. Make any excuse — ask for gloves — pocket-handkerchiefs — any thing that will give
you an opportunity of seeing and speaking to her. You will find me waiting for you at the
confectioner's."
He pointed out the place where I should find him, and I proceeded to see a fair one, who had already
placed me two feet only from the muzzle of a loaded pistol.
I looked above the door, and the name inscribed upon the show-board was a Quaker's. I entered the
shop — several starch and steady women were behind the counter — but none of them were of the short
whose charms could endanger the personal safety of any man. Was Clinton jesting with me? At the
moment when I was deliberating whether I should not retire at once, a party of ladies came in.
Immediately the shopwomen were engaged in attending to them; and one retiring to a door that opened
on an inner apartment, said, in a voice that I overheard, "Agnes! thou art required here."
My eyes were instantly turned to the place whence the fair inamorata might be expected — and presently
she appeared. I was almost struck dumb with astonishment. I lovelier face than hers I never looked at!
Many a year has passed away, but I shall never forget that beauteous girl. She was scarcely nineteen —
tall, and notwithstanding the formality of her costume, the roundness of her arm, and the symmetry of
her waist and bosom, could not be concealed. Her eyes were hazel, with an expression of extreme
gentleness. Her hair, Madonna-like, was parted on the forehead; but the simple cap could not hide the
profusion of its silken tresses. The outline of the face was strictly Grecian — the complexion pale and
delicate — while the "ripe red lip" formed a striking contrast in its hue, and seemed is if "some bee had
stung it newly."
I was perfectly fascinated; and were any thing wanted to make her irresistible, her voice was so
musical, so modulated, that "the listener held his breath to hear." For a quarter of an hour I dallied
under various pretexts in the shop; and when at last I could not find a fresh apology for further delay, I
came away fully convinced that I had never seen an angel until now.
Clinton was at the confectioner's, and we left it together.
"Have you seen Agnes?" he said.
"I have seen the sweetest girl in Ireland," was my reply.
"Is she not worth loving, George?" he said.
"Worth loving? For one smile I would walk barefoot to the barrack; and a kiss would more than repay a
pilgrimage to Mecca."
"Faith! I half repent my having exposed you to her charms, the impression appears to have been so
powerful," said Clinton, with a laugh. "But I must tell you a long tale to-night. I cannot dine at mess
to-day; there are strangers invited, and I could not steal off in time. I have ordered something at home;
and when you return from the barracks at night I shall be waiting up, and we can have a confidential
tête-á-tête. Here come some of our fellows, and I shall be off. Adieu — you will be home before
eleven."
"I shall be with you as soon as I can leave the table without observation."
We parted — he on business of his own, and I to visit the guard.
The party at the mess was large, for we had an unusual number of guests at dinner. The band was in
attendance — the wine circulated freely — and notwithstanding my anxiety to leave the room, it was
almost twelve before I could accomplish it. I visited my guard, and then set out to keep my
appointment with my friend Clinton.
The evening had been close, not a breeze moved a leaf, and there was that sullen heaviness in the
atmosphere which generally precedes a change of weather. Now the night had altered — sudden gusts
moaned along the street, and doors and windows clattered. A storm was coming fast, and I hurried
along to reach home before the rain began.
I had no apprehension of being followed. I looked back — no one but myself was afoot, and my old
pursuer had deserted me. I passed the lane where I had met him last night. No one was there, and I
reached my lodgings unmolested.
Fitzpatrick, my servant, was sitting up. I inquired for Clinton, and to my surprise was told that he had
not returned since he had gone out at dusk. Had he eloped with the fair Quaker? It must be so. Well -
- that was easily ascertained — for he would require some clothes and his dressing-case. I took up the
candles and went to his room. All there was undisturbed; his toilet as it always was, and his
portmanteaus in their accustomed places. It was indeed surprising! He might have had an evening
interview with Agnes — but to remain till midnight — the thing was impossible. I was lost in a
confusion of suppositions, and at last rang the bell, and inquired from Fitzpatrick when Mr. Clinton had
been last at home?
The answer was not satisfactory. My own servant informed me that at eight o'clock, when he was
engaged, in folding some uniforms, my companion had entered the apartment, taken my pistols,
examined the loading and primings carefully, put them in his pocket, wrapped my cloak around him,
and telling Fitzpatrick to say that he would be home at ten, left the house.
I was very uneasy — I feared something disastrous — strange misgivings flashed over my mind, and the
warning of the formidable stranger was not forgotten. I could not delay longer, for I was obliged to
return to the guard-room. All I could do was to leave a message for my friend, and tell him he might
expect me at an early breakfast.
The rain was now falling heavily — the wind was louder and more gusty — Clinton had taken my cloak,
and I put on a large coat that covered my uniform, and started for the main guard. A wilder night could
scarcely have come on so rapidly; and as the clouds careered quickly across the new moon, the
darkness at times was nearly impenetrable. My route to the barracks was by that remote and
unfrequented lane; and as I entered it, I confess the éclaircissement on the preceding evening with the
gentleman in the frieze coat was rather a pleasurable recollection.
I hurried along the lane and gloomy passage, and came to the corner of the garden-wall, where I had
awaited and confronted the unknown. A few paces forward he and I had held our brief and threatening
colloquy. I wheeled round the wall. By Heaven! there he was — the same gray-coated man — the same
tall and gloomy-looking stranger!
In an instant my sabre was unsheathed, and as rapidly on his part a pistol presented.
"How now?" I exclaimed. "Why are you here to-night? Advance a step, and I'll cleave you to the
chin!"
"Pish! boy — keep your threats for those who fear them. I mean you no ill; that is, if you do not draw
my vengeance on you by some silly indiscretion."
"What do you want?" I replied. "You labour under no mistake to-night."
"Oh — no!" he returned coldly. "Mistakes touching the identity of your friend are ended."
"Why do you stop me then?"
"Merely to ask a question or two, and assure you that if you walk the lane till doomsday, he who
confronts you now will never lay his foot upon it afterwards."
"And what is that to me? I shall come better prepared to-morrow. You have an advantage in your
weapons. Put fire-arms aside — I will throw away my sword — and let the best man be the conqueror."
He laughed hoarsely.
"Foolish boy! I do not question your manhood, and I am not here to try your mettle. I came to ask a
question, and bid you farewell. Did you deliver my message to your friend?"
"Now, in the devil's name!" I exclaimed, as his cool audacity irritated my temper. "What right have
you to demand any thing from me, or suppose that I would reply to your inquiries?"
"I have no right," replied the stranger; "nor do I ask it but as a favour. If you have no reason for
refusing a reply, I beg it in mere courtesy."
"Courtesy!" I exclaimed. "Strange courtesy, when men converse with naked swords and cocked
pistols."
"'Tis the last time, young man, that I shall ever cross your path. Your gay companion is doubtless
revelling at his mess, or, happier yet, locked in beauty's arms."
There was a devilish expression in the latter portion of the stranger's remark, that struck me with a
creeping horror, which I cannot describe.
"I do not understand you," I replied. "Wherever my friend is, I trust he is in safety."
"Oh — safe he is — I'll be surety for that. Will you, however, oblige me with a reply to my question?
Did you deliver him the message I confided to you? Remember, I ask an answer as a compliment."
"I did."
"Humph! he was warned then! How did he receive the warning?"
"As any brave man should treat an idle threat — with the contempt it merited."
"Indeed?" — and there was a demoniac emphasis on the word as it seemed to hiss from between his lips.
A strong suspicion of foul play flashed across my mind, and I felt half assured that Clinton has been ill-used.
"I fear that you have wronged him," I said. "if so, he has friends that will assert his quarrel."
"Well, I must abide their vengeance. But you are wrong. He is at this moment sleeping in the arms of
beauty."
"I disbelieve you. If you have wronged him —"
"Pshaw! how incredulous you are" — rejoined the stranger. "Ask him the particulars to-morrow, and
every word he tells you I will admit as fact. Adieu — it is the last time you and I shall ever meet."
"Stay, you must not go — shall not go."
"Pish — silly boy! I have fire arms, you have none. Were we unarmed, I would toss you over that
wall, if you were fool enough to tease me by being troublesome."
As before — he wheeled suddenly round the corner — a horse was waiting for him — he jumped upon his
back, waved his hand, and in a second was out of sight!
I was perfectly confounded. What was I to do? I dare not betray the secret of my friend; and yet I was
desperately alarmed for his safety. Was there no middle course? I determined to confide my fears to a
companion, and hurried to the guard-room to communicate as much of my apprehensions to the senior
officer as I might do, without compromising Clinton's secret.
Douglas, from the confused and imperfect story that mine was, where so much of the affair was
necessarily concealed, was quite unable to advise me. I sent a soldier twice to our lodgings, to inquire
if my friend had returned; but he brought back intelligence of his continued absence, and at daybreak I
proceeded to the house myself, to try whether I could discover any cause for his mysterious
disappearance. My fears were only heightened, and his servant was now seriously alarmed for his
master's safety. Again we examined his chamber — unlocked his portmanteaus — opened his drawers; -
- not an article was missing — every thing remained in its usual place, and it was quite clear, that when
he left the house on the preceding evening, he had taken nothing away save my cloak and pistols.
Three hours passed, but no tidings of the absentee. I wrote a note to the colonel, stated the strange
circumstances of Clinton's disappearance, and obtained his permission to leave the guard before the
relief-hour came. I hardly knew in what direction I should first proceed, or from whom I should make
inquiries. I walked into the town, intending to look into the Quaker's shop, and try if I could see Agnes
there. I reached the street — a crowd was about the house, and there was evidently something wrong. I
mixed among the throng, and learned from one of the idlers that the Quaker's beautiful shopwoman had
left home the preceding evening, and as she had not returned, some thought she had met with an
accident, and others said she had only run away. The last conjecture I felt persuaded was the true one.
My fears for Clinton's safety vanished — the absence of both was easily accounted for — my imprudent
companion had persuaded the fair Quaker to accompany him, and an elopement was the result. It was
useless to ask any questions. Before evening it was probable that Clinton would return, or acquaint me
where he was concealed; and with a load of uneasiness removed from my mind, I turned my footsteps
towards the barrack, to resume my guard, and be ready for the relief. I entered the gate, when the
sentry called out, "Sergeant of the guard, here's Lieutenant O'Connor!"
The man addressed ran out —
"Lord! sir, they are looking for you in all directions. Your cloak has been found on the banks of the
river. They say Mr. Clinton is drowned, and all the gentlemen and half the regiment are away to look
for him.
I was unexpectedly horror-stricken. The mysterious language and dark hints the stranger used, coupled
with the disappearance of the Quaker girl, assured me that some dreadful calamity had befallen the
unhappy lovers. I took the direction where I observed some soldiers moving; and at the distance of a
half mile, a group of red coats and civilians, were collected on the banks, and busily employed in
dragging the river.
I ran at speed and was quickly on the spot. Twenty voices pronounced my name, and the crowd made
way for me. Col. Hope was surrounded by a dozen officers; and a soldier beside him held a cloak that
I recognised to be my own, while in the hands of another I perceived my pistols.
"O'Connor," said the colonel, "your fears for Clinton will prove too true. Are these yours?" — and he
pointed to the weapons.
I replied in the affirmative, and we walked a few paces from the crowd.
"I dread that our ill fated companion is not far from the spot where they were found."
"I am persuaded," I answered, "that his body is in the river; and God grant his be the only one! Under
what circumstances were those things discovered?"
"The cloak," replied the colonel, "lay carelessly upon the bank, as if it had been thrown off for some
sudden purpose. The pistols were found in the next field."
"Pray let me examine them. They were loaded when Clinton took them, and the charge is a singular
one. I could not find balls in the case, and my servant cut a musket-ball into quarters, and two slugs
were put into each barrel."
The weapons were brought. On examination it was clear that neither had been discharged, and the
divided bullet was found exactly as I described it.
Our attention was called to the search making in the river. A cry arose among the soldiers that the drag
had fastened. More hands seized the rope — something heavy came gradually up — and before it
touched the surface, female garments were discernible. Next moment the body of the beautiful Quaker
was drawn out, and laid upon the bank. An exclamation of horror burst from the crowd, and all rushed
forward to gaze upon a countenance that yesterday had teemed with life and loveliness, and whose
beauty even death could scarcely diminish. Her dress was not in the least deranged — the simple bonnet
was tied beneath the chin — the gloves were on her hands — not a riband was displaced — not a pin
seemed wanting. From all appearances, our surgeon supposed that she had been twelve hours in the
water. That luckless cloak of mine was thrown over the departed beauty, and we recommenced a
search for our missing comrade.
I recollected the sarcastic remark of the unknown, when he alluded to the absence of poor Clinton, and
asserted that at that time he "might be locked in beauty's arms." Where the Quaker's body had been
lying, I suspected that my ill-starred companion would be discovered; and my conjecture was soon
verified, for a few casts of the iron raised Clinton's lifeless corpse!
Like the body of the sweet victim who lay beside him, no indication of violence was visible on the
soldier's. His uniform was uninjured, and not a button torn away. Death had not been inflicted by a
plunderer; for a valuable ring was on the finger, and a watch and note-case in the pocket when the body
was recovered. The hat alone was wanting; and on the following day it was found in a mill pond,
whither it had been carried by the stream.
The whole affair was involved in a deep and impenetrable mystery. There were no marks upon the
bodies — no traces of a recent struggle visible on the riverbank. The night had not been so dark, that
the unhappy couple could have accidentally fallen in; and if they had, Clinton was an excellent
swimmer. That Agnes had any acquaintance with the drowned soldier, beyond what his calling often at
the shop produced, was unknown to her friends and family. On searching her drawers no letter or note
was found; and Clinton's private papers, many of them billet-doux, threw no light upon the transaction.
There was one sealed packet of considerable size found in his writing-desk, with an endorsement, "to
be burned when I am dead," — and in accordance with the wish expressed upon the envelope, it was
immediately committed to the flames.
It was also a strange circumstance that nobody save myself had seen or encountered the man in the
frieze coat, who had so frequently dogged me to my lodgings. Of course I left the house — for it would
have painfully reminded me of my unfortunate companion. But though I remained for some months
afterwards in the garrison, I never, from that fatal night, met any person having the slightest
resemblance to the unknown.
I need not be tedious. I shall pass over the sensation poor Clinton's death occasioned among us, and the
general sympathy the untimely fate of the beautiful Agnes elicited from all who had seen or known her.
At the inquest nothing was elicited connected with the cause of their deaths; and the bodies, followed
by an immense concourse, were conveyed away. Clinton's, of course, was carried to the barrack, and
that of the gentler sufferer was removed to the dwelling of her kindred.
By a strange accident the funerals occurred at the same time, and the processions crossed each other.
One, with the unpretending simplicity of the sect she belonged to, seemed stealing quietly from the
scenes of busy life, to seek that "end of all men" — the grave. The other, accompanied by all the
parade that marks the interment of a soldier — the dead march pealing from the band — the firing party
before the coffin — the regiment following with slow and measured step — moved to the cathedral, in
whose cemetery Clinton's last resting-place had been prepared. The service of the dead was ended —
thrice the volley of his own company rolled over their departed comrade — the earth rattled on the
escutcheon that bore his name — the grave was filled — the music of the dead changed to a merry
quickstep — and Clinton, in military parlance, was forgotten!
"And," asked a young lieutenant, "was that foul and fearful deed never brought to light?"
"Never" — replied O'Connor. "With the dead themselves the secret appeared to rest. Many years have
since passed over, and nothing has ever transpired which could solve the mystery."
"Was a rigid inquiry instituted?"
"Yes; but all efforts failed. By degrees the wonder ceased, other local violences occurred, the interest
gradually abated, and that double murder — for murder assuredly it was — is now only spoken of like
those wild deeds of blood, which the Irish peasant delights on a winter night to listen to. But 'tis late —
to bed, lads. We march by cock-crow."
In less than half an hour every sound was still, save the deep breathing of those who occupied the
bivouac. It told that those it sheltered were sleeping more soundly on their truss of straw, than many a
careworn head which pressed a downy pillow.
[End of Chapter XI]
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