The two combatants, clasped tightly in each other’s arms, plunged into a party of teachers and cadets who were hastening upward in response to Brightly’s cry of “Fire!” In another moment Brede was secured; and when the fire, which had been confined to Brightly’s room, was extinguished, he was taken back to the guard-house, from which he had escaped by reason of a defective lock.

When they came to assist Brightly to his feet they found that he had fainted. They carried him to Mrs. Silsbee’s rooms, and after a little time he returned to consciousness. He was badly bruised, and his wrist and shoulder were sprained. Beyond that, he had sustained no bodily injury; but the shock to his nerves, already weak and disordered, had completely prostrated him. That night a fever came on, and the next day he was delirious.

When the boys marched into the schoolroom on the following evening, they all wore very sober faces. The events of the past twenty-four hours had been so dramatic, so tragic, that the impressions left by them on these young minds were little less than terrible. The lads were frightened, humbled, submissive; the rebellious spirit was utterly broken.

Colonel Silsbee saw this in their faces that night as he looked down on them from the desk; his sympathy grew strong for them, and he laid down his book and spoke to them.

“I had not thought,” he said, “to speak to you of the occurrences of the past few days until some later period, when the excitement attending them should have died out, and we could talk of them calmly and without prejudice; but the developments of the last twenty-four hours seem to make it fitting that something should be said to you to-night. I trust that the climax of the evil has been reached and passed. Indeed, I know on looking into your faces, that this is so. I cannot doubt that you realize that the painful events of the past three days have been the result of the folly of your own conduct. I speak to those of you who have been engaged in rebellion.”

He paused a moment and then proceeded:

“You thought you knew better than we did what was best for you. In carrying out that idea you took a fatiguing journey down the river; you narrowly escaped drowning in crossing the Hudson; and had it not been for the kindness of a stranger to all of you save one, you would have been shelterless and hungry in the storm and night. Your return home was a journey, of the sufferings of which I need not speak to you. Its accomplishment was made possible only by the energetic effort and forceful conduct of one of your own number.

“That was your holiday. Now what are the results? Broken studies, physical ailments, nervous exhaustion, ruined clothing, officers reduced to ranks, half of the school on perpetual delinquency. These are some of them, but not the most serious.

“In a family-room, in another part of this building, one of your comrades is raving in delirium.

“In the guard-house, in still another part of the building, your former ranking cadet-commander is confined on prison-fare, having disgraced himself and having brought reproach on you and us. To the same building, which represents my earthly possessions and answers for your home, the torch has been applied, and only a timely discovery has saved us all from homelessness and ruin.”

His voice was trembling, but not with anger, and his face was very pale. After a moment’s pause, he continued,—

“You do not need reproof nor admonition now; I can see that very plainly. I recall these results only because I want you never to forget that the causes which have led to them were produced by you. Such things will not occur in this school again in my lifetime. This lesson will pass down through many generations of students here, and help them to firmer loyalty and higher manhood. But from to-night we shall fear no ill. From to-night we shall have the old fair feeling between us, and the old confidence and sympathy.”

At the last his voice had broken, and it was some minutes before he felt that he could control it sufficiently to go on with the evening lesson and prayer; but when the short service was concluded, there was not a boy in the room whose better nature had not been deeply touched and strengthened, and whose heart was not fixed steadfastly for the right.

The next night, when the ranks were formed at tattoo, the cadets were told that taps would not sound as usual; that they were to go to their rooms, and might lie down if they chose, but that they were to hold themselves in readiness to “fall in” at any moment.

At first no one knew what the order meant; but it was soon whispered around that Brede’s father was coming that night to take his son away, and that the battalion was to be formed at his departure. Of course, under these circumstances, sleep was out of the question, and Brede’s fate was the topic of conversation in every room.

It was not until eleven o’clock that those on the east side of the building heard a carriage drive up to the front entrance. Then it was known that General Brede had come, and was alone with Colonel Silsbee in the office. A half-hour later orders were communicated to the cadets to form in the drill-hall.

The formation of ranks was accomplished almost noiselessly. The orderly sergeants called their rolls in tones scarcely above a whisper; all commands were given with hushed voices. It was as if they were fearful of rousing some one from sleep, or as if death was present in the house.

The command to “Rest!” was given. This left the boys free to move in their places and to talk; but there were few who moved and there were none who talked. The stillness was impressive. Only two lamps were burning in the drill-hall, and the corners of the room were in deep shadow.

Outside, by the door, a carriage waited, and there was heard at times the impatient pawing of horses.

After a few minutes Colonel Silsbee and General Brede entered from the dining-room. The battalion was called to attention, and a squad of four was detailed, in charge of a sergeant, to proceed to the guard-house, relieve the sentinels on duty there, and escort Cadet Brede to the drill-hall.

They passed out and up the stairs, and all was again quiet.

Colonel Silsbee stood near the stairway entrance. General Brede had taken up a position at the farther end of the hall by the outside door. Dressed in military hat and cloak, magnificent in figure, stern of countenance, he stood with folded arms, like the immovable statue of a soldier.

Once the horses moved outside; once a sudden shifting of the wind caused the rain to dash noisily against the windows. Save for these sounds the stillness was unbroken.

After a little the regular tramp of feet was heard descending the staircase, and out from the darkness the squad marched, with Brede in the midst, straight to Colonel Silsbee. The salute was given and returned, and the soldiers retired to their places in the ranks. With a slight motion of his hand, the colonel directed Brede to go with him. Then they went together down the length of the hall, down the front of the battalion.

The disgraced cadet started on the trying journey with all of his old-time swagger. He looked boldly into the faces of his companions, and forced the hard smile again into his face, and the old cruel curl into his lips.

But there was no answering smile from the motionless ranks. Every lip was like marble; every face was like adamant. It was a terrible farewell. The light went out from Brede’s countenance as he walked; the curl left his lips; his face grew pale as death, and took on an expression of agony and fear. Step by step his swagger left him; step by step his head fell, his shoulders bowed, his body shrank into itself. It was as if he were passing to his execution.

At three paces from the general they halted, and Colonel Silsbee gave the military salute. General Brede answered it, and motioned to the boy to pass out with him at the opened door. No word was spoken.

On the threshold Brede turned, and looked back for an instant into the room on the rigid ranks, the stony faces of his old companions. Then his pride, his bravado, his whole heart, gave way; he put his hands to his face, and cried out in agony.

The father and son passed out into the darkness; the carriage-door was closed, and the sound of receding wheels was drowned in the roaring of the storm.

No one who saw that white and frightened face against the background of the night or heard that cry has ever forgotten it. It was sad, it was just, it was terrible! It was a lesson that burned itself indelibly on the heart of every boy who witnessed it.

They sent for Brightly’s mother, and she came; but the prompt medical attention and the unremitting care of good Mrs. Silsbee had brought on a favorable change, and on her arrival she found her boy already on the road to recovery.

She stayed with him for a time. One day during his early convalescence, Brightly had been talking to his mother of the troubles at the school, and of his own faults and mistakes and recent resolutions.

It was then that she told him the secret of the appointments. Colonel Silsbee had intimated to her at the beginning of the year that he intended to make her son his ranking cadet-commander; but after she had thought upon the matter, she requested him not to do so. She wanted Brightly to have still another year at Riverpark, and had made the request in the belief that the hope of future honors and the opportunity to win higher rank would be an incentive to his ambition, and that their attainment would add zest and variety to his last year at school.

Colonel Silsbee, in compliance with her request, had appointed to the two ranking offices cadets who would certainly leave at the end of the year, and had given to Brightly the third position. When the lad heard this he turned his face away and was silent; but the expression of his countenance told the story of regret and humility better than words could have told it.

Time passed at Riverpark. May melted softly into June, and June’s days, too, were now almost at an end. One by one she had counted them out, tinted with emerald, glowing with sunshine, jewelled with raindrops. Indeed, there were scarcely ten more of them left in her rose-clasped girdle.

But to forty soldiers of the Riverpark battalion the solaces of summer fell exclusively within the grounds of the academy. For them there were no long walks in the country, no boating on the river, no pilgrimages to the city. Yet they acknowledged the justness of their punishment, and bore it bravely.

Brightly was with them again, quite recovered from his illness. He studied hard; his deportment was beyond question; he was a model soldier. He went about among the delinquents with cheerful face and hearty manner, and inaugurated for them such mild pleasures as could be enjoyed in delinquency. By counsel and example he reconciled the unfortunates to their fate, and by the very strength of his presence diffused among them a feeling of hope, of confidence, of good-will, which inspired them to higher effort, to better work, to nobler manhood.

The last week of the school-year came. It was to be, according to custom, a week of camp-life. Already the white tents were dotting the eastern slope of the lawn; already the schoolroom was deserted and the recitation-rooms were empty; the sentinels were pacing their beats through shade and sunshine, and the grounds of Riverpark were alive with bodies of moving troops.

It was the afternoon of the first day in camp, and the hour for dress-parade. Many people had come up from the city to witness the evolutions of the troops, and the east porch was bright with the summer costumes of the ladies who had gathered there.

Brightly, marching in the ranks, felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret. If he were only adjutant to-day! if he could only feel the weight of his plume, see his sword flashing in the sunshine, hear his voice in words of command! It was such a splendid place,—that post of adjutant; the ceremonial set down for him was so knightly, so dignified, so grand! The folly of disobedience and revolt impressed itself upon him even more at that moment than it had done during the hard weeks of his punishment.

Another thing worried and perplexed him. Something was going on among the boys that they were keeping hid from him. There were secret conferences that he had unwittingly disturbed, whispered words that were not meant for his ears; once a paper was whisked suddenly out of his sight to which some one had been just in the act of affixing his signature.

He hoped that there was no new mischief brewing; he could not quite bring himself to believe that, under the calmness and good discipline of the time, rebellion was again struggling for an outbreak.

But the dress-parade was on. The boys had never drilled better. Their white-gloved hands moved in perfect unison, and the points of their bayonets flashed into line through the sunlight as quickly and sharply as a lightning-stroke. Every one admired and praised the movements.

At that point in the military ceremonial where the adjutant faces to the commanding officer and gives him the result of the orderly sergeant’s reports, something unusual occurred.

Finkelton was acting as adjutant. The point of his sword was still all but touching the ground, and the words of the report were scarcely out of his mouth, when Major Drumlist, who was in command, said,—

“Publish your Orders, sir.”

Finkelton faced to the battalion again, sheathed his sword, drew a paper from his belt, unfolded it, gave the command: “Attention to orders!” and began to read.

It was a full half-minute before the boys in the ranks realized the great good fortune that had fallen on them. Then they all seemed to discover it at once. A shout went up as from a single throat. Caps were tossed wildly into the air. There was cheering, hand-shaking, excited laughter, enthusiasm beyond control. To those forty delinquents it was the same as giving sudden freedom to a caged wild bird.

Plumpy, whose irrepressible spirits had made it necessary, since the very beginning of the year, that he should dwell in seclusion at Riverpark, was almost convulsed with delight. He leaped and waved his cap and shouted, until the boys nearest to him in the ranks felt obliged to resort to their customary method of laying him down on his back and sitting on him to repress his wild enthusiasm.

When order had been partially restored in the ranks, the major turned and saluted Colonel Silsbee, who had been standing near him, with folded arms, enjoying the scene quietly, but intensely. The colonel returned the salute, and advanced to address the troops.

“Soldiers of the Riverpark battalion,” he said, “I have to-day received a petition signed by every cadet in the school save one. I have read it with great pleasure; for it shows me that you appreciate soldierly efforts to regain the standing lost through an unhappy error. So do I appreciate them; and it will not detract one whit from the strength and virtue of your petition to tell you that I had already decided, before receiving it, to do that which you request. I do it very cheerfully; I am glad to confer honor upon one whom you yourselves have designated as the first soldier and gentleman among you.”

Colonel Silsbee saluted the major, and the major saluted the acting adjutant, and said,—

“Publish your Order, sir.”

Clear and resonant came Finkelton’s voice:

What a shout went up then! No one ever heard anything like it before. They cheered till they were hoarse. Those who were near enough to Brightly hugged him frantically, and those who were not near enough reached out their muskets to touch bayonets with him. They laughed—why, some of them laughed till they cried.

Brightly himself was completely overcome by joy at his restoration, and pride in the applause of his comrades. Colonel Silsbee’s face was so radiant with pleasure that no one noticed the big teardrops that glistened on his cheeks.

How they ever got the battalion to attention again no one knew. But they did get the boys to observe order at last, and the dress parade closed with all its military pomp and display. The jubilant ranks were broken, the bright-faced ladies walked slowly away, and the sweet sunshine of June rested upon the earth in radiant splendor. But oh the sweeter sunshine of happiness in fourscore boyish hearts!