town who, like himself, had been attracted by the music, he would have
felt that he intruded. He now wished to remain. He wanted to carry
with him into his exile a memory of the men in uniform, of the music,
and pretty women, of the gorgeous crimson sunset. But, though he
wished to remain, he did not wish to be recognized.

From the glances already turned toward him, he saw that in this little
family gathering the presence of a stranger was an event, and he was
aware that during the trial the newspapers had made his face
conspicuous. Also it might be that stationed at the post was some
officer or enlisted man who had served with him in Cuba, China, or the
Philippines, and who might point him out to others. Fearing this,
Swanson made a detour and approached the band-stand from the wharf, and
with his back to a hawser-post seated himself upon the string-piece.

He was overcome with an intolerable melancholy. From where he sat he
could see, softened into shadows by the wire screens of the veranda,
Admiral Preble and his wife and their guests at tea. A month before,
he would have reported to the admiral as the commandant of the station,
and paid his respects. Now he could not do that; at least not without
inviting a rebuff. A month before, he need only have shown his card to
the admiral's orderly, and the orderly and the guard and the officers'
mess and the admiral himself would have turned the post upside down to
do him honor. But of what avail now was his record in three campaigns?
Of what avail now was his medal of honor? They now knew him as Swanson,
who had been court-martialled, who had been allowed to resign, who had
left the army for the army's good; they knew him as a civilian without
rank or authority, as an ex-officer who had robbed his brother
officers, as an outcast.

His position, as his morbid mind thus distorted it, tempted Swanson no
longer. For being in this plight he did not feel that in any way he
was to blame. But with a flaming anger he still blamed his brother
officers of the court-martial who had not cleared his name and with a
clean bill of health restored him to duty. Those were the men he
blamed; not Rueff, the sergeant, who he believed had robbed him, nor
himself, who, in a passion of wounded pride, had resigned and so had
given reason for gossip; but the men who had not in tones like a
bugle-call proclaimed his innocence, who, when they had handed him back
his sword, had given it