e foot of the stairs he found the orderly with
the horses, and, mounting with suspicious care, he rode to the stables.

The troop was in ranks and waiting. Before the roll was called,
Sergeant Wilson, his face drawn and wrinkled like old parchment, came
forward and asked hesitatingly if there were any news from Washington.
The officer shook his head. The cords in the old negro's throat worked
convulsively, and he requested rather brokenly that he might be excused
from this formation, and be allowed to remain in charge of quarters.

"No," the Lieutenant replied thickly; "there is no reason why _you_
should be excused any more than any one else. The regular man will
remain in charge of quarters." The whole troop heard, as he intended
they should. The "bracer" was getting in its work, and Perkins was
feeling good again. The wily schemes, the shapes and shadows of the
previous night, were growing in his brain once more. He would teach
these niggers who was who.

And so they took Private Buff Wilson out into the falling rain and
hanged him. In the center of the square, formed by the squadron he had
disgraced, he paid the price. The solemn hills, shrouded in mist, looked
down, sadly, impassively. They were not more motionless on their
everlasting foundations than was Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson, sitting his
big bay like a granite statue, the tragedy of the ages and of his race
deep in the hollow sockets of his eyes. For is it not written: "_A
servant of servants shall he be unto his brethren_"?

The signal was given. The trap fell with a bang; the spray flew from the
snapping rope; and Private Wilson was jerked unceremoniously into the
presence of his Maker. Justice was satisfied, and the account was
balanced.

When a man is hanged, he must be buried. To bury a man it takes a detail
in charge of a non-commissioned officer. The non-commissioned officer is
designated by name from the sergeant-major's office. He is also chosen
by roster in his proper order. It happened to be Sergeant Jeremiah
Wilson's turn for duty. Consequently Sergeant Jeremiah Wilson was told
off to bury his own son.

There was no detachment, no ceremony, no firing squad--only an escort
wagon containing a black Q. M. coffin, upon which were perched four or
five wet, disconsolate troopers armed with picks and shovels. Old
Jeremiah followed, mounted, a feverish light in his eyes and drops of
moisture standing on his grizzled mustache. So he went forth and sa