I do not wake; and my revolver is here under the blanket. Hold on! Let's
take a look and see if everything is all right." He holds a little
camp-lantern over the bags, opens the flap, and peers in. "Yes,--all
serene. I got a big hunk of green sealing-wax from the paymaster and
sealed it all up in one package with the memorandum-list inside. It's
all safe so far,--even to the hunk of sealing-wax.--What is it,
sergeant?"

A tall, soldierly, dark-eyed trooper appears at the door-way of the
little tent, and raises his gauntleted hand in salute. His language,
though couched in the phraseology of the soldier, tells both in choice
of words and in the intonation of every phrase that he is a man whose
antecedents have been far different from those of the majority of the
rank and file:

"Will the captain permit me to take my horse and those of three or four
more men outside the corral? Sergeant Clancy says he has no authority to
allow it. We have found a patch of excellent grass, sir, and there is
hardly any left inside. I will sleep by my picket-pin, and one of us
will keep awake all the time, if the captain will permit."

"How far away is it, sergeant?"

"Not seventy-five yards, sir,--close to the river-bank east of us."

"Very well. Send Sergeant Clancy here, and I'll give the necessary
orders."

The soldier quietly salutes, and disappears in the gathering darkness.