ed, and I was compelled to hide with a
farmer near Boonsboro' until Rix reached me. He had been my clerk, and
was an expert penman. He fixed the necessary papers for me, and, with
the aid of certain disguises I had, it was not so hard to get around. I
meant to resign, but feared that, if offered through the regular
channels, it would be refused, and I be brought to trial because of the
condition of my accounts. Then I found that I was too late to undo the
wrong I had done, and it was while trying to make partial amends that I
came so near being captured by Colonel Putnam at Frederick. It made me
desperate. That night I took the first horse I could find, and rode down
the valley, believing all was lost, and that I must get away from that
part of the country. Money found me a hiding-place when my papers would
no longer serve. Then money bribed a messenger to carry word of my
condition to Rix, who had been sent to the regiment at Harper's Ferry.
He got away and joined me, and made out some more papers for me, and
then started, by night and alone, to get home, where he said he had
money. Mine was about gone by that time, and here I lay in hiding until
Stuart came sweeping down the Monocacy on his way back to Virginia, and
I was glad to be captured and carried along. I gave him my proper name
and rank, and when Rix came back the army had left that part of the
country, and he followed me into Virginia. He said he would be shot,
anyway, if captured; and the next I heard of him--I being then a
prisoner in Richmond--was that he had enlisted in a Virginia regiment,
and was dying here in Fredericksburg. He had been devoted to me, and
needed me. I gave my parole, and was allowed to come here to nurse him.
He was recovering and able to be about when the bombardment opened, and
I was shot at the river bank, whither I had gone to bid him good-bye,
and was carried here. The rest that I have to say is for Major Abbot
alone to hear."

Putnam and the adjutant, after a few questions, withdraw; and at last,
with even the soldier nurse excluded, the dying man is alone with the
one officer of his regiment who had striven to befriend him, and whom he
has so basely rewarded.

"There is no time for lamenting or empty talk of forgiveness and
remorse. It is time you heard the truth, Abbot. I always envied you at
college. I envied every man who had birth or wealth or position. I had
some brains, but was poor, burdened with the care of a vagabond b