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“Is it possible,” asked Cimon deeply impressed, “that he sent such word to Xerxes?”

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"You bet," assented the sergeant, still laughing. "You oughter heard that gal sass me. There she was, all by herself in a little house, with a kid about two years old, an' when I come politely to tell her I'd take care the men didn't milk her cow or take her chickens, and told her she needn't be afraid of anything, she stood in her door, with that baby in her arms, and fairly poured hot shot into me. 'I'm a soldier's widow,' she says, her eyes blazing. 'Do you think I know what it is to be afraid of you? Oh, if this child only was a man to shoulder his dead father's musket!' Now, you know, Kaintuck, that kind o' talk from a poor young thing all dressed in black breaks a man all up. So I just kep' my cap in my hand, and I says, 'Madam, I respect a soldier's widow, no matter which side the soldier fought on, and whether you'll agree or not, I'll make it my business to see that you'll have some kind of protection.' We was in winter quarters then, about a mile from her house. You know, men is hard to manage sometimes, and if I hadn't spoke to some of the officers, the poor thing's little all in the way of chickens and such would have gone. But I told my cap'n about it, and that her husband was killed in the rebel army, and he settled it so that not a man dared to be seen near that hen roost

"Now Tubal he useter hoe in de g'yardin an' keep things goin', but de onlies' way he could git money wuz by fiddlin'. Marse Page he do widout all he could, but he wuz er gent'mun, an' he couldn' do widout much, an' Miss Letty she sent him all she make. An' den one night he wuz tooken sick an' had a stroke of paradise. He couldn' move, an' he couldn' hardly talk, but he call Tubal ter de baidside, an' he say, 'Remember, boy, not a word of this to your Miss Letty.' You see, Marse Page didn' have no right arm, an' he couldn' wrote wid he lef', an' Tubal had 'rections fum Miss Letty dat ev'y week he wuz ter git somebody ter write ter her an' tell her 'bout Marse Page, an' she keep on sen'in' him her money, but dat wouldn' been 'nough arter Marse Page got he stroke of paradise, ef it hadn' been fer Tubal's fiddlin'. Now, in dem times, dey wuz Yankees 'bout. Dey wuz two or three cump'nies dat camp out at de river landin', an' Tubal useter go over ter de camp an' play fer 'em, an' come back wid er greenback in he pocket. Marse Page by dat time didn' know nuttin' hardly. He jes' lay d'yar an' suffer an' groan. Out at de camp dey wuz a orficer—a cap'n—dat wuz mighty

felt she had scored. But George did not share her elation.

She ceased to struggle, and when he looked at her pale face and into her eyes, which are ever truer messengers of the soul than the spoken words of the mouth, he read a truth which bewildered him. Passionately he kissed her lips, once, twice, thrice, then rudely put her from him and strode away in the direction of Phalerum.

The chaplain took her hand and led her inside the prison door, while the sergeant walked rapidly out of the jail yard.

Aboard the grotesque mount again, he groaned. To mask the misery of his unaccustomed pounding he paid scientific attention to the landscape, the gait of the camelopards, the leather of the saddles, and the posture and person of Takeko—this last by far the most effective of his analgesic thoughts.

[133]

"A man would have to stand exposed to shoot an arrow," Hartford admitted. "The Dardick-guns would mow us down before we'd punctured a single safety-suit." He paced up and down the room, the only trained warrior there, trying to devise his unkilling weapon.

He lay in hospital for a long spell, painful but self-satisfied. The nature of his injuries was not yet clear to him. Presently he would get all right again. V.C., he whispered. At twenty. Pretty decent.

[102]

"It's to be hoped it won't," said the policeman, who was not a romanticist.

The Machine blinked, blinked once more and then, although barely twenty seconds had elapsed, moved a rook.

1.

2.[Pg 82]

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