ung officer.

Herbert bowed and was about to retire from the room, when he was called
back by the General, who placed a packet of letters in his hand, saying
that they had arrived among his despatches, and were for the prisoner,
to whom Major Greyson might as well take them at once.

Herbert received them with avidity, and on his way back to the
Colonel's tent he examined their superscription.

There were three letters--all directed to Traverse Rocke. On two of
them he recognized the familiar handwriting of Marah Rocke, on the
other he saw the delicate Italian style of a young lady's hand, which
he readily believed to be that of Clara.

In the midst of his anxiety on his friend's account he rejoiced to have
this one little ray of comfort to carry him. He knew that many months
had elapsed since the young soldier had heard from his friends at
home--in fact, Traverse never received a letter unless it happened to
come under cover to Herbert Greyson. And well they both knew the
reason.

"How very fortunate," said Herbert, as he rode on, "that I happened to
be at the General's quarters to receive these letters just when I did;
for if they had been sent to Colonel Le Noir's quarters or to Captain
Z.'s, poor Traverse would never have heard of them. However, I shall
not distract Traverse's attention by showing him these letters until he
has told me the full history of his arrest, for I wish him to give me a
cool account of the whole thing, so that I may know if I can possibly
serve him. Ah, it is very unlikely that any power of mine will be able
to save him if indeed, and in truth, he did sleep upon his post,"
ruminated Herbert, as he rode up to the tent where the prisoner was
confined.

Another pair of sentinels were on duty in place of those who had
refused him admittance.

He alighted from his horse, was challenged, showed his order, and
passed into the tent.

There a sight met him that caused the tears to rush to his eyes--for
the bravest is always the tenderest heart.

Thrown down on the mat at the back of the tent lay Traverse Rocke,
pale, haggard and sunken in the deep, deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
Even in that state of perfect abandonment, prostration and
insensibility, the expression of great mental anguish remained upon his
deathly countenance; a mortal pallor overspread his face; his thick,
black curls, matted with perspiration, clung to his hollow temples and
cheeks; great drops of sweat beaded upon hi