eath!"

"I pinched myself, I cut my flesh, I burned my skin, but all in vain.
Nothing could withstand the overwhelming power of sleep that finally
conquered me, about five o'clock this morning. Then, in the midst of a
delightful dream of mother and Clara and home, I was roused up by a
rude shake, and awoke to find my musket fallen from my hands, and my
Captain and Colonel standing over me. It was several minutes before I
could travel back from the pleasant land of sleep and dreams and
realize my real position. When I did I had nothing to say. The
inevitable ruin I felt had come, and crushed me into a sort of dumb
despair. Nor did my superior officers reproach me--their revenge was
too perfect. The captain called a sergeant to take my gun, and I was
marched off to my present prison. And, Herbert, no sooner was I left
alone here than sleep overcame me again, like a strong man, and despite
all the gloom and terror of my situation, despite all my thoughts of
home and mother and Clara, I slept like a tired child. But this
awakening. Oh! this awakening, Herbert!"

"Be of good courage. Let us hope that heaven will enable us to confound
the plots of the evil, and save you!"

"Ah, Herbert, that will be impossible. The duty of a soldier is clear
and stern; his punishment, if he fails in it, swift and sure. At the
word of command he must march into the very jaws of death, as is right.
He must die or madden for the want of rest, rather than fall asleep on
his post, for if he does, his punishment is certain and shameful death.
Oh, my mother! Oh, Clara! Would heaven I had fallen at Vera Cruz or
Churubusco, rather than live to bring this dreadful sorrow upon you,"
cried Traverse, covering his convulsed face with his hands.

"Cheer up, cheer up, old comrade. All is not lost that is endangered,
and we shall save you yet!"

"Herbert, you know it is impossible."

"No, I do not know any such thing!"

"You know that I shall be tried to-day and shot to-morrow! Oh, Herbert,
never let my dear ones at home know how I shall die. Tell them that I
fell before Chepultepec--which will be literally true, you know. Oh, my
mother! Oh, my dear Clara, shall I never see you more? Never hear your
sweet voices calling me? Never feel the kind clasp of your hands again?
Is this the end of a life of aspiration and endeavor? Is this the
comfort and happiness I was to bring you?--early bereavement, dishonored
names and broken hearts?"

"I tell you, no!