rected; "you stay right in this room. Mr. Roselle, he's downstairs, and Mr. McCall, and" her voice took on a faint insistent note of warning. He paid little heed to her; he was lost in a wave of weariness.
The following morning, stronger, he rose and tentatively trying the door found it locked. The colored woman appeared soon after with a tray which, when he had performed a meager toilet, he attacked with a pleasant zest.
"The city's just burning right up," she informed him, standing in the middle of the floor; "the boats on the river caught fire and their camions banged into Canal Street." She had a pale even color, a straight delicate nose and sensitive lips.
"Are the Union troops in charge?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. They got some of the fire out, I heard tell. But that's not the worst now—a body can't set her foot in the street, it's so full of drunken roaring trash, black and white. It's good Mr. Roselle and Mr. McCall and Mr. John are here," she declared again; "they could just finish off anybody that offered to turn a bad hand."
This, Elim felt, was incongruous with his reception yesterday.
Still he made no inquiry. The breakfast finished, he relapsed once more on his pillows and heard the key stealthily turn in the door from the outside.
He told himself, without conviction, that he must rise and join his command. The war, he knew, was over; the courage that had sustained him during the struggle died. The simple question of the colored woman had largely slain it. His own personality, the vision of his forth-
