It opened, and a soldier stood aside while two men entered. One was Fox, the other a heavy-set, gray mustached officer, in the uniform of a colonel of infantry. The captain greeted me gravely, and extended his hand.
"I would far rather meet you as I did before," he said, "but war gives us no choice."
"I took my chances, and have no complaint," I answered heartily, for I liked the man. "I presume there is no doubt as to my fate?"
"I fear not, but the matter is not in my hands, for which I am grateful. This is Colonel Pickney, in command."
I bowed, and our eyes met. The face confronting me was strong and resolute, its expression that of regret.
"A very young man, Captain Fox," he said to his companion, "which fact adds to the unpleasantness of such duty. Your name is Wyatt?"
"Yes, sir."
"You claim connection with the Confederate service—an officer?"
"A sergeant of artillery, sir."
He cleared his throat impressively.
"You have the appearance of an intelligent man, Sergeant Wyatt, and must realize the seriousness of your position. I am sure I need not dwell upon the
