Part 13 (2/2)

Every incident worthy of note in St. Udo's life was correctly narrated, every name connected with the characters involved stated, their portraits distinctly painted, their characteristics faithfully recalled, with many a reference to the pocket-alb.u.m, between; clear as if he lived it all over again, St. Udo placed his past before the eyes of the Chevalier de Calembours.

And neither the chevalier nor St. Udo Brand saw the slow-match flickering over a tiny note-book behind the tent, or heard the stealthy sc.r.a.pe of a pencil as long, brown fingers took down, in phonetic characters, the words dropping lazily from the unconscious man's lips.

When St. Udo had finished, the chevalier rose and stretched his cramped limbs.

”_Morbleu!_ Time has fled nimbly this night. I forgot everything in your recital, _mon ami_. Thanks for your amiable complaisance; and now I retire to follow you in dreams. _Bon soir._”

With a silent chuckle, he stepped from St. Udo's tent and disappeared to seek his own quarters.

Thoms, too, clasped up his tiny note-book, and creeping round the side of the tent, and observing that St. Udo sat absorbed in dark reverie, he wrapped himself in his blanket, and threw himself at St. Udo's feet, and soon fell asleep.

Then the night grew black and late, and silence brooded solemnly above the camp, broken only by the faint moan of the sleepless wanderer, or the picket's hollow tramp.

Twice the devoted preserver of St. Udo's life softly raised his head to look at Colonel Brand, and sank down again, and still the lonely man sat gazing into the lurid embers of the waning watch-fire, thinking his thoughts of gall.

Just before dawn he thought he heard a movement in the camp, a faint, uncertain tripping of a wary foot, a sly whistle, twice repeated.

Through the murky gloom St. Udo peered with languid interest at a spot of fire gently undulating toward his tent.

What could it be? A cannoneer's slow match! But what could bring a battery there--and at that hour?

Unwilling to alarm needlessly his slumbering command, he slid back from the glare of the camp-fire into the shadow of his tent, and rising, bent his steps to the neighborhood of the suspicious object.

A pa.s.sing breeze, laden with the perfume of the familiar cigar, a brighter glow, revealing the drooping nose and pursed-up lips, declared the ident.i.ty of the prowler.

”Pshaw, you Calembours again--what sets you prowling about again like a cat on the leads, or, rather a hungry jackal in a graveyard?”

”_Mai foi!_ you wear your tongue pa.s.sably loose, _mon ami_. A night cat?

No, worse luck. No pretty little kittens to chase round here. A jackal among _les cadores_? You have too many of that sort down there already, stripping the dead and the living, too. Still, let us not scandalize the profession, the calling of the jackal is a n.o.ble one when there is genius and _finesse_ to raise it from the _metier_ to the art. But where the jackal points the lion pounces. You call me the jackal. _Eh, bien j'accepte_--it is mine to point, but it is for you, Monsieur le Lion, to take the leap.”

”A truce to your riddles, and say what you've got to say--though why you can't come out with it openly, I can't conceive.”

”Find, then, my little meaning,” whispered the chevalier, impressively.

”In two words, you shall be _au courant_ with the affair. We have come here to push our fortune, but the jade flouts us, and ranks herself under the standard of the foe. Let us follow her thither. For you and for me there is neither North nor South, Federal nor Confederate.

Soldiers of Fortune, we follow wherever glory leads the way, and victory fills the pocket. What of this last bagatelle of a victory to-day? We have escaped with our skins to-day; to-morrow we will loose them. No, _mon ami_, the South will win the day; so join we the Southern chivalry as becomes _chevaliers d'honneur_.”

”Why, you precious scoundrel! I always thought you somewhat of a puppy, but to propose this to me, an Englishman and a gentleman! Draw, you treacherous hound--draw, and defend yourself!”

And the steel blade glistened like the sword of the avenging angel before the eyes of the astonished Hun.

”_Sacre, mon Dieu!_ Has he gone mad?” was his sole reply, as with the practical skill of an accomplished _maitre d'armes_ his ready rapier was set, and parrying the lunges of his vexed opponent.

Still, with muttered explanations, blaspheming e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns and apologies, intermingled with furious rallies, he sought to moderate the just wrath of St. Udo, till at last, hearing loud shouts and footsteps approaching, by a quick turn he evaded St. Udo's pa.s.s, and dashed his sword out of his hand high in the air. Ere St. Udo could stoop to recover it, the traitor dealt him a mighty blow over the head, which felled him to the ground, and the last remembrance he had was the taunting ”_au revoir_” of the renegade as he plunged into the thicket and vanished from pursuit.

When St. Udo recovered, he found himself surrounded by eager faces, and Thoms kneeling in the att.i.tude of anxiety beside him, staring at him with intentness.

”What's all this, colonel?” demanded an old officer.

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