Nearly all the guests left the Markham house at the same time and stood for a few moments in the white Greek portico, bidding one another good-night. It seemed to Prescott that it was a sort of family parting.

The last good-by said, Robert and Helen started down the street, toward the Harley home six or seven blocks away. Her gloved hand rested lightly on his arm, but her face was hidden from him by a red hood. The cold wind was still blustering mightily about the little city and she walked close beside him.

“I cannot help thinking at this moment of your army. Which way does it lie, Robert?” she asked.

“Off there,” he replied, and he pointed northward.

“And the Northern army is there, too. And Washington itself is only two hundred miles away It seems to me sometimes that the armies have always been there. This war is so long. I remember I was a child when it began, and now ”

She paused, but Prescott added:

“It began only three years ago.”

“A long three years. Sometimes when I look toward the North, where Washington lies, I begin to wonder about Lincoln. I hear bad things spoken of him here, and then there are others who say he is not bad.”

“The ‘others’ are right, I think.”

“I am glad to hear you say so. I feel sorry for him, such a lonely man and so unhappy, they say. I wish I knew all the wrong and right of this cruel struggle.”

“It would take the wisdom of the angels for that.”

They walked on a little farther in silence, passing now near the Capitol and its surrounding group of structures.

“What are they doing these days up there on Shockoe?” asked Prescott.

“Congress is in session and meets again in the morning, but I imagine it can do little. Our fate rests with the armies and the President.”

A deep mellow note sounded from the hill and swelled far over the city. In the dead silence of the night it penetrated like a cannon shot, and the echo seemed to Prescott to come back from the far forest and the hills beyond the James. It was quickly followed by another and then others until all Richmond was filled with the sound.

Prescott felt the hand upon his arm clasp him in nervous alarm.

“What does that noise mean?” he cried.

“It’s the Bell Tower!” she cried, pointing to a dark spire-like structure on Shockoe Hill in the Capitol Square.

“The Bell Tower!”

“Yes; the alarm! The bell was to be rung there when the Yankees came! Don’t you hear it? They have come! They have come!”

The tramp of swift feet increased and grew nearer, there was a hum, a murmur and then a tumult in the streets; shouts of men, the orders of officers and galloping hoof-beats mingled; metal clanked against metal; cannon rumbled and their heavy iron wheels dashed sparks of fire from the stones as they rushed onward. There was a noise of shutters thrown back and lights appeared at innumerable windows. High feminine voices shouted to each other unanswered questions. The tumult swelled to a roar, and over it all thundered the great bell, its echo coming back in regular vibrations from the hills and the farther shore of the river.

After the first alarm Helen was quiet and self-contained. She had lived three years amid war and its tumults, and what she saw now was no more than she had trained herself to expect.

Prescott drew her farther back upon the sidewalk, out of the way of the cannon and the galloping cavalry, and he, too, waited quietly to see what would happen.

The garrison, except those posted in the defenses, gathered about Capitol Square, and women and children, roused from their beds, began to throng into the streets. The whole city was now awake and alight, and the cries of “The Yankees! The Yankees!” increased, but Prescott, hardened to alarms and to using his eyes, saw no Yankees. The sound of scattered rifle shots came from a point far to the eastward, and he listened for the report of artillery, but there was none.

As they stood waiting and listening, Sefton and Redfield, who had been walking home together, joined them. The Secretary was keen, watchful and self-contained, but the Member of Congress was red, wrathful and excited.

“See what your General and your army have brought upon us,” he cried, seizing Prescott by the arm. “While Lee and his men are asleep, the Yankees have passed around them and seized Richmond.”

“Take your hand off my arm, if you please, Mr. Redfield,” said Prescott with quiet firmness, and the other involuntarily obeyed.

“Now, sir,” continued Robert, “I have not seen any Yankees, nor have you, nor do I believe there is a Yankee force of sufficient size to be alarming on this side of the Rapidan.”

“Don’t you hear the bell?”

“Yes, I hear the bell; but General Lee is not asleep nor are his men. If they had the habit of which you accuse them the Yankee army would have been in this city long ago.”

Helen’s hand was still lying on Prescott’s arm and he felt a grateful pressure as he spoke. A thrill of delight shot through him. It was a pleasure to him to defend his beloved General anywhere, but above all before her.

The forces of cavalry, infantry and artillery increased and were formed about Capitol Square. The tumult decreased, the cries of the women and children sank. Order reigned, but everywhere there was expectation. Everybody, too, gazed toward the east whence the sound of the shots had come. But the noise there died and presently the great bell ceased to ring.

“I believe you are right, Captain Prescott,” said the Secretary; “I do not see any Yankees and I do not believe any have come.”

But the Member of Congress would not be convinced, and recovering his spirit, he criticized the army again. Prescott scorned to answer, nor did Helen or the Secretary speak. Soon a messenger galloped down the street and told the cause of the alarm. Some daring Yankee cavalrymen, a band of skirmishers or scouts, fifty or a hundred perhaps, coming by a devious way, had approached the outer defenses and fired a few shots at long range. The garrison replied, and then the reckless Yankees galloped away before they could be caught.

“Very inconsiderate of them,” said the Secretary, “disturbing honest people on a peaceful night like this. Why, it must be at least half-past two in the morning.”

“You will observe, Mr. Redfield,” said Prescott, “that the Yankee army has not got past General Lee, and the city will not belong to the Yankees before daylight.”

“Not a single Yankee soldier ought to be able to come so near to Richmond,” said the Member of Congress.

“Why, this only gives us a little healthy excitement, Mr. Redfield,” said the Secretary, smoothly; “stirs our blood, so to speak, and teaches us to be watchful. We really owe those cavalrymen a vote of thanks.”

Then putting his hand on Redfield’s arm, he drew him away, first bidding Prescott and Miss Harley a courteous good-night.

A few more steps and they were at Helen’s home. Mr. Harley himself, a tall, white-haired man, with a self-indulgent face singularly like his son Vincent’s, answered the knock, shielding from the wind with one hand the flame of a fluttering candle held in the other.

He peered into the darkness, and Prescott thought that he perceived a slight look of disappointment on his face when he saw who had escorted his daughter home.

“He wishes it had been the Secretary,” thought Robert.

“I was apprehensive about you for awhile, Helen,” he said, “when I heard the bell ringing the alarm. It was reported that the Yankees had come.”

“They are not here yet,” said Prescott, “and we believe it is still a long road to Richmond.”

As he bade Helen good-night at the door, she urged him not to neglect her while he was in the capital, and her father repeated the invitation with less warmth. Then the two disappeared within, the door was shut and Robert turned back into the darkness and the cold.

His own house was within sight, but he had made his mother promise not to wait for him, and he hoped she was already asleep. Never had he been more wide awake, and knowing that he should seek sleep in vain, he strolled down the street, looking about at the dim and silent city.

He gazed up at the dark shaft of the tower whence the bell had rung its warning, at the dusky mass of the Capitol, at the spire of St. Paul’s, and then down at a flickering figure passing rapidly on the other side of the street. Robert’s eyes were keen, and a soldier’s life had accustomed him to their use in the darkness. He caught only a glimpse of it, but was sure the figure was that of the Secretary.

Though wondering what an official high in the Government was about flitting through Richmond at such an hour, he remembered philosophically that it was none of his business. Soon another man appeared, tall and bony, his face almost hidden by a thick black beard faintly touched with silver in the light of the moon. But this person was not shifty nor evasive. He stalked boldly along, and his heavy footsteps gave back a hard metallic ring as the iron-plated heels of his boots came heavily in contact with the bricks of the sidewalk.

Prescott knew the second figure, too. It was Wood, the great cavalryman, the fierce, dark mountaineer, and, wishing for company, Robert followed the General, whom he knew well. Wood turned at the sound of his footsteps and welcomed him.

“I don’t like this town nor its folks,” he said in his mountain dialect, “and I ain’t goin’ to stay long. They ain’t my kind of people, Bob.”

“Give ’em a chance, General; they are doing their best.”

“What the Gov’ment ought to do,” said the mountaineer moodily, “is to get up ev’ry man there is in the country and then hit hard at the enemy and keep on hittin’ until there ain’t a breath left in him. But sometimes it seems to me that it’s the business of gov’ments in war to keep their armies from winnin’!”

They were joined at the corner by Talbot, according to his wont brimming over with high spirits, and Prescott, on the General’s account, was glad they had met him. He, if anybody, could communicate good spirits.

“General,” said the sanguine Talbot, “you must make the most of the time. The Yankees may not give us another chance. Across yonder, where you see that dim light trying to shine through the dirty window, Winthrop is printing his paper, which comes out this morning. As he is a critic of the Government, I suggest that we go over and see the task well done.”

The proposition suited Wood’s mood, and Prescott’s, too, so they took their way without further words toward Winthrop’s office, on the second floor of a rusty two-story frame building. Talbot led them up a shabby staircase just broad enough for one, between walls from which the crude plastering had dropped in spots.

“Why are newspaper offices always so shabby,” he asked. “I was in New York once, where there are rich papers, but they were just the same.”

The flight of steps led directly into the editorial room, where Winthrop sat in his shirt sleeves at a little table, writing. Raymond, at another, was similarly clad and similarly engaged. A huge stove standing in the corner, and fed with billets of wood, threw out a grateful heat. Sitting around it in a semi-circle were four or five men, including the one-armed Colonel Stormont and another man in uniform. All were busy reading the newspaper exchanges.

Winthrop waved his hand to the new visitors.

“Be all through in fifteen minutes,” he said. “Sit down by the stove. Maybe you’d like to read this; its Rhett’s paper.”

He tossed them a newspaper and went on with his writing. The three found seats on cane-bottomed chairs or boxes and joined the group around the stove.

Prescott glanced a moment at the newspaper which Winthrop had thrown to them. It was a copy of the Charleston Mercury, conducted by the famous secessionist Rhett, then a member of the Confederate Senate, and edited meanwhile by his son. It breathed much fire and brimstone, and called insistently for a quick defeat of the insolent North. He passed it on to his friends and then looked with more interest at the office and the men about him. Everything was shabby to the last degree. Old newspapers and scraps of manuscript littered the floor, cockroaches crawled over the desks, on the walls were double-page illustrations from Harper’s Weekly and Leslie’s Weekly, depicting battle scenes in which the frightened Southern soldiers were fleeing like sheep before the valiant sons of the North.

“It’s all the same, Prescott,” said Talbot. “We haven’t any illustrated papers, but if we had they’d show the whole Yankee army running fit to break its neck from a single Southern regiment.”

General Wood, too, looked about with keen eyes, as if uncertain what to do, but his hesitation did not last long. A piece of pine wood lay near him, and picking it up he drew from under his belt a great keen-bladed bowie-knife, with which he began to whittle long slender shavings that curled beautifully; then a seraphic smile of content spread over his face.

Those who were not reading drifted into a discussion on politics and the war. The rumble of a press just starting to work came from the next room. Winthrop and Raymond wrote on undisturbed. The General, still whittling his pine stick, began to stare curiously at them. At last he said:

“Wa’al, if this ain’t a harder trade than fightin’, I’ll be darned!”

Several smiled, but none replied to the General’s comment. Raymond presently finished his article, threw it to an ink-blackened galley-boy and came over to the stove.

“You probably wonder what I am doing here in the enemy’s camp,” he said. “The office of every newspaper but my own is the camp of an enemy, but Winthrop asked me to help him out to-night with some pretty severe criticism of the Government. As he’s responsible and I’m not, I’ve pitched into the President, Cabinet and Congress of the Confederate States of America at a great rate. I don’t know what will happen to him, because while we are fighting for freedom here we are not fighting for the freedom of the press. We Southerners like to put in some heavy licks for freedom and then get something else. Maybe we’re kin to the old Puritans.”

They heard a light step on the stair, and the two editors looked up expecting to see some one of the ordinary chance visitors to a newspaper office. Instead it was the Secretary, Mr. Sefton, a conciliatory smile on his face and a hand outstretched ready for the customary shake.

“You are surprised to see me, Mr. Winthrop,” he said, “but I trust that I am none the less welcome. I am glad, too, to find so many good men whom I know and some of whom I have met before on this very evening. Good-evening to you all, gentlemen.”

He bowed to every one. Winthrop looked doubtfully at him as if trying to guess his business.

“Anything private, Mr. Sefton?” he said “If so we can step into the next room.”

“Not at all! Not at all!” replied the Secretary, spreading out his fingers in negative style. “There is nothing that your friends need not hear, not even our great cavalry leader, General Wood. I was passing after a late errand, and seeing your light it occurred to me that I might come up to you and speak of some strange gossip that I have been hearing in Richmond.”

All now listened with the keenest interest. They saw that the wily Secretary had not come on any vague errand at that hour of the morning.

“And may I ask what is the gossip?” said Winthrop with a trace of defiance in his tone.

“It was only a trifle,” replied the Secretary blandly; “but a friend may serve a friend even in the matter of a trifle.”

He paused and looked smilingly around the expectant circle. Winthrop made an impatient movement. He was by nature one of the most humane and generous of men, but fiery and touchy to the last degree.

“It was merely this,” continued the Secretary, “and I really apologize for speaking of it at all, as it is scarcely any business of mine, but they say that you are going to print a fierce attack on the Government.”

“What then?” asked Winthrop, with increasing defiance.

“I would suggest to you, if you will pardon the liberty, that you refrain. The Government, of which I am but a humble official, is sensitive, and it is, too, a critical time. Just now the Government needs all the support and confidence that it can possibly get. If you impair the public faith in us how can we accomplish anything?”

“But the newspapers of the North have entire freedom of criticism,” burst out Winthrop. “We say that the North is not a free country and the South is. Are we to belie those words?”

“I think you miss the point,” replied the Secretary, still speaking suavely. “The Government does not wish to repress the freedom of the press nor of any individual, nor in fact have I had any such matter in mind in giving you this intimation. I think that if you do as I hear you purpose to do, some rather extreme men will be disposed to make you trouble. Now there’s Redfield.”

“The trouble with Redfield,” broke in Raymond, “is that he wants all the twenty-four hours of every day for his own talking.”

“True! true in a sense,” said the Secretary, “but he is a member of the House Committee on Military Affairs and is an influential man.”

“I thank you, Mr. Secretary,” said Winthrop, “but the article is already written.”

A shade crossed the face of Mr. Sefton.

“And as you heard,” continued Winthrop, “it attacks the Government with as much vigour as I am capable of putting into it. Here is the paper now; you can read for yourself what I have written.”

The galley-boy had come in with a half-dozen papers still wet from the press. Winthrop handed one to the Secretary, indicated the editorial and waited while Sefton read it.

The Secretary, after the perusal, put down the paper and spoke gently as if he were chiding a child: “I am sorry this is published, Mr. Winthrop,” he said. “It can only stir up trouble. Will you permit me to say that I think it indiscreet?”

“Oh, certainly,” replied Winthrop. “You are entitled to your opinion, and by the same token so am I.”

“I don’t think our Government will like this,” said Mr. Sefton. He tapped the newspaper as he spoke.

“I should think it would not,” replied Winthrop with an ironical laugh. “At least, it was not intended that way. But does our Government expect to make itself an oligarchy or despotism? If that is so, I should like to know what we are fighting for?”

Mr. Sefton left these questions unanswered, but continued to express sorrow over the incident. He did not mean to interfere, he said; he had come with the best purpose in the world. He thought that at this stage of the war all influences ought to combine for the public good, and also he did not wish his young friends to suffer any personal inconvenience. Then bowing, he went out, but he took with him a copy of the paper.

“That visit, Winthrop, was meant for a threat, and nothing else,” said Raymond, when he was sure the Secretary was safely in the street.

“No doubt of it,” said Winthrop, “but I don’t take back a word.”

They speculated on the result, until General Wood, putting up his knife and throwing down his pine stick, drew an old pack of cards from an inside pocket of his coat.

“Let’s play poker a little while,” he said. “It’ll make us think of somethin’ else and steady our nerves. Besides, it’s mighty good trainin’ for a soldier. Poker’s just like war half the cards you’ve got, an’ half bluff. Lee and Jackson are such mighty good gen’rals ’cause they always make the other fellow think they’ve got twice as many soldiers as they really have.”

Raymond, an inveterate gambler, at once acceded to the proposition; Winthrop and one of the soldiers did likewise, and they sat down to play. The others looked on.

“Shall we make the limit ten cents in coin or ten dollars Confederate money?” asked Winthrop.

“Better make it ten dollars Confederate; we don’t want to risk too much,” replied Raymond.

Soon they were deep in the mysteries and fascinations of the game. Wood proved himself a consummate player, a master of “raise” and “bluff,” but for awhile the luck ran against him, and he made this brief comment:

“Things always run in streaks; don’t matter whether it’s politics, love, farmin’ or war. They don’t travel alone. At Antietam nearly half the Yankee soldiers we killed were red-headed. Fact, sure; but at Chancellorsville I never saw a single dead Yankee with a red head.”

The luck turned by and by toward the General, but Prescott thought it was time for him to be seeking home and he bade good-night. Colonel Stormont accompanied him as he went down the rickety stairs.

“Colonel,” asked Prescott, as they reached the street, “who, in reality, is Mr. Sefton?”

“That is more than any of us can tell,” replied the Colonel; “nominally he is at the head of a department in the Treasury, but he has acquired a great influence in the Cabinet he is so deft at the despatch of business and he is at the White House as much as he is anywhere. He is not a man whom we can ignore.”

Prescott was of that opinion, too, and when he got into his bed, not long before the break of day, he was still thinking of the bland Secretary.