tent-walls, soldierly men in gay and gaudy uniforms, fluttering
guidons, blue ammunition-boxes in orderly array, smart sentries pacing
their posts, and a head-quarters tent where busy officers bent over
maps and reports.

The scene I had set was one painted in martial colors, in scarlet and
gold lace; it moved to martial music, to bugle-calls, to words of
command, to the ringing challenge of the sentry, and what I had found
was this camp of gypsies, this nest of tramps, without authority,
discipline, or self-respect. It was not even picturesque. My
indignation stirred me so intensely that, as I walked down the hill, I
prayed for a rude reception, that I might try to express my disgust.

The officer who had first approached us stopped at the opening of the
solitary tent, and began talking excitedly to someone inside. And as
we reached the level ground, the occupant of the tent stepped from it.
He was a stout, heavy man, with a long, twisted mustache, at which he
was tugging fiercely. He wore a red sash and a bandman's tunic, with
two stars sewn on the collar. I could not make out his rank, but his
first words explained him.

"I am glad to see you at last, Mr. Aiken," he said. "I'm Major Reeder,
in temporary command. You have come to report, sir?"

Aiken took so long to reply that I stopped studying the remarkable
costume of the Major and turned to Aiken. I was surprised to see that
he was unquestionably frightened. His eyes were shifting and blinking,
and he wet his lips with his tongue. All his self-assurance had
deserted him. The officer who had led us to the camp was also aware of
Aiken's uneasiness, and was regarding him with a sneer. For some