ving bank, and coming to
the pawpaw bushes found Richard Cleave stooping over the small flame
that Tullius had kindled and was watchfully feeding with pine cones.
Cleave straightened himself. "Good-evening, Stafford! Come to my tiny,
tiny fire. I can't give you coffee--worse luck!--but Tullius has a
couple of sweet potatoes."

"I can't stay, thank you," said the other. "General Jackson is over
yonder?"

"Yes, by the great pine. I will take you to him." The two stepped from
out the ring of pawpaws, Stafford, walking, leading his horse. "General
Loring complains again?"

"Has he not reason to?" Stafford looked about him. "Ugh! steppes of
Russia!"

"You think it a Moscow march? Perhaps it is. But I doubt if Ney
complained."

"You think that we complain too much?"

"What do you think of it?"

Stafford stood still. They were beside a dark line of cedars, skirting
the forest, stretching toward the great pine. It was twilight; all the
narrow valley drear and mournful; horses and men like phantoms on the
muffled earth. "I think," said Stafford deliberately, "that to a
Napoleon General Loring would not complain, nor I bear his message of
complaint, but to General Jackson we will, in the interests of all,
continue to make representations."

"In the interests of all!" exclaimed Cleave. "I beg that you will
qualify that statement. Garnett's Brigade and Ashby's Cavalry have not
complained."

"No. Many disagreeable duties are left to the brigades of General
Loring."

"I challenge that statement, sir. It is not true."

Stafford laughed. "Not true! You will not get us to believe that. I
think you will find that representations will be forwarded to the
government at Richmond--"

"Representations of disaffected soldiers?"

"No, sir! Representations of gentlemen and patriots. Remonstrances of
brave men against the leadership of a petty tyrant--a diseased mind--a
Presbyterian deacon crazed for personal distinction--"

Cleave let his hand fall on the other's wrist. "Stop, sir! You will
remember that I am of Garnett's Brigade, and, at present, of General
Jackson's military family--"

Stafford jerked his wrist away. He breathed hard. All the pent
weariness, irritation, wrath, of the past most wretched days, all the
chill discomfort of the hour, the enmity toward Cleave of which he was
increasingly conscious, the very unsoundness of his position and
dissatisfaction with his errand, pushed him on. Quarrel was in the air.