l wear his cherished jacket. He made a
brave figure as he rode away, and my cheer died on my lips as I thought
of the sad, old mother in her faded knot, and of the dashing young
soldier who had saved the colors in that unnamed fight.

After that we got him a place, and he did well for several months. He
seemed to be cured. New life and strength appeared to come back to him.
But his mother died, and one night shortly afterward he disappeared, and
remained lost for several days. When we found him he had been brought to
jail, and I was sent for to see about him. He was worse than I had ever
known him. He was half-naked and little better than a madman. I went
to a doctor about him, an old army surgeon, who saw him, and shook his
head. "'Mania a potu'. Very bad; only a question of time," he said. This
was true. "No. 4" was beyond hope. Body and brain were both gone. It
got to be only a question of days, if not of hours. Some of his other
friends and I determined that he should not die in jail; so we took
him out and carried him to a cool, pleasant room looking out on an old
garden with trees in it. There in the dreadful terror of raving delirium
he passed that night. I with several others sat up with him. I could
not have stood many more like it. All night long he raved and tore. His
oaths were blood-curdling. He covered every past portion of his life.
His army life was mainly in his mind. He fought the whole war over.
Sometimes he prayed fervently; prayed against his infirmity; prayed
that his chains might be broken. Then he would grow calm for awhile. One
thing recurred constantly: he had sold his honor, betrayed his cause.
This was the order again and again, and each time the paroxysm of
frightful fury came on, and it took all of us to hold him. He was
covered with snakes: they were chains on his wrists and around his body.
He tried to pull them from around him. At last, toward morning, came one
of those fearful spells, worse than any that had gone before. It
passed, and he suddenly seemed to collapse. He sank, and the stimulant
administered failed to revive him.

"He is going," said the doctor, quietly, across the bed. Whether his
dull ear caught the word or not, I cannot say; but he suddenly roused
up, tossed one arm, and said:

"Binford, take the horses. I'm going to old Joe," and sank back.

"He's gone," said the doctor, opening his shirt and placing his ear over
his heart. As he rose up I saw two curious scars on