ve, well-born most likely, came up
from the ranks, ... won a commission as sergeant fighting Indians, but
always in trouble--gambling, fighting, and so forth. Somebody in
Washington got him a lieutenancy, and while the commission was on its
way to him out West he got into a bar-room brawl. He resigned then, and
left the army. He was gentleman enough to do that. Now he's back. The
type is common in the army, and they often come back. I expect he has
decency enough to want to get killed. If he has, maybe he'll come out a
captain yet."

By and by came "tattoo," and finally far away a trumpet sounded "taps";
then another and another and another still. At last, when all were
through, "taps" rose once more out of the darkness to the left. This
last trumpeter had waited--he knew his theme and knew his power. The
rest had simply given the command:

"Lights out!"

Lights out of the soldier's camp, they said. Lights out of the soldier's
life, said this one, sadly; and out of Crittenden's life just now
something that once was dearer than life itself.

"Love, good-night."

Such the trumpet meant to one poet, and such it meant to many another
than Crittenden, doubtless, when he stretched himself on his
cot--thinking of Judith there that afternoon, and seeing her hand lift
to pull away the veil from the statues again. So it had always been with
him. One touch of her hand and the veil that hid his better self parted,
and that self stepped forth victorious. It had been thickening, fold on
fold, a long while now; and now, he thought sternly, the rending must be
done, and should be done with his own hands. And then he would go back
to thinking of her as he saw her last in the Bluegrass. And he wondered
what that last look and smile of hers could mean. Later, he moved in his
sleep--dreaming of that brave column marching for Tampa--with his mind's
eye on the flag at the head of the regiment, and a thrill about his
heart that waked him. And he remembered that it was the first time he
had ever had any sensation about the flag of his own land. But it had
come to him--awake and asleep--and it was genuine.

VI

It was mid-May now, and the leaves were full and their points were
drooping toward the earth. The woods were musical with the cries of
blackbirds as Crittenden drove toward the pike-gate, and the meadow was
sweet with the love-calls of larks. The sun was fast nearing the zenith,
and air and earth were lusty with life. Al