It proved the last pound that broke the back of Priscilla's stubborn resistance. Men and women who had found much to condemn in Miss Sanford, who had disseminated and discussed the tale of her correspondence with the Banner and the talk that followed, who had heard with indignation that it was after Dwight's conference with Miss Sanford that he so furiously punished little Jim (for, as we know, Mrs. Thornton had assured everybody that so far as she was concerned she had done her utmost to make the major understand that Jimmy never did it on purpose), who had felt the lash of her over-candid comment on their social or parental shortcomings, now had no little malicious merriment to add to the deservedly hard things they had said of her. For a fortnight, probably, Miss Sanford had been the most unpopular woman that Minneconjou's oldest inhabitant could name; but the men and women who saw her as one after another she faced the results of her most confident efforts, began to feel for the lonely, sorrowing maiden a respect and sympathy denied her before. It was plain that Priscilla was well-nigh crushed, and "when women weep" and are desolate and hopeless resentment turns to pity and blame to words of cheer. No one, of course, was ever told by Mrs. Ray or by Sandy of what had passed in the sanctity of the family circle, but in her humility and contrition Priscilla spoke of it to Mrs. Stone and to others, who soon came to try to show her she was forgiven. There were a few days after Dwight's fever in which she seemed utterly heartbroken, and Mrs. Ray believed her seriously ill. There were days in which she begged Aunt Marion to send her home, when, really, she had no home; to send her East, then, where she could begin anew and work her way in the world. If it came to the worst, Maidie Stuyvesant would keep her from starving. But Aunt Marion would listen to no such proposition. Priscilla must stay with her and at Minneconjou and live down the unhappy repute. Aunt Marion knew how very much genuine good there was in Priscilla when once she could rid herself of that propensity ever to correct, criticise, and condemn; nor had Minneconjou been slow to see this and to speak of it. Now that the tide was turning, by dozens they came to talk of her real charity, her devotion to the sick and sorrowing, the hours she had given—was ever ready to give—to reading to the bed-ridden and helpless in hospital or the humble quarters of the married soldiers. Men who had laughed among themselves at her lecturing and preaching took to snubbing men who spoke in disparagement of her motives. One thing was certain, whether they shared her views or not, all Minneconjou believed in her sincerity, and soldiers honor those who fight and suffer for their convictions. Of Priscilla it might therefore be said she had made friends in spite of herself, and though hardened sinners at the mess and humor-loving husbands in the quarters did indulge in little flings at the ultimate and inevitable failure of all feminine meddlings in matters that were purely military, there were few, indeed, after the first mirthful explosions, who having seen her sorrowful face did not feel genuine sympathy for her in the collapse of her Anti-Canteen Soldiers' Benevolent Association.

For with Blenke's fall Priscilla was left indeed lamenting and alone.

Something of a cause cÉlÈbre was that of Blenke's when it came to trial. The summary court officer had had his hands full since payday. The number of cases of absence without leave, drunkenness, disorder, and disrespect to non-commissioned officers, etc., had sextupled. All were what might be called typical cases, and traceable, as a rule, to Skidmore's; but Blenke's, like Blenke himself, was individual and peculiar. Moreover, it savored of the mysterious.

The man seemed overwhelmed with mortification and distress. No one at Minneconjou had ever known him to take so much as a glass of wine. No one at Minneconjou among either officers or men ever really knew him at all, for Blenke kept his own counsel, lived entirely to himself, was neat as a new pin, prompt and accurate on duty, smart in dress—more so than many of his officers, if truth be told—ready, respectful and in fine a model soldier. But he had no friends nor intimates; he had no confidants, unless we except Priscilla, to whom he had told much more than Sandy Ray, when told, would for a moment believe. He came before the court after two days' incarceration, neat and trim as though just off inspection. He stood with swimming eyes before the desk, pleaded guilty throughout, declined to summon a soul to say a good word for him or his general character, would not even glance at the group of officers hovering inquisitively about, would not even plead "first offense" or urge a syllable in mitigation of sentence, even though the allegations against him, as the court intimated to his captain, "seemed piling it on." One specification might well have covered the entire tale of his misdoing, but he stood accused of absence from quarters between taps and reveille, of presence in premises where he had no possible right to be, and finally of utter drunkenness. Blenke pleaded guilty to all, and humbly said that, had there been more accusation, he would have done the same, for he knew nothing of what occurred after fifteen minutes at Skidmore's somewhere toward midnight.

Now, the court wished to know and the listeners wished to hear some explanation of his having turned up so far from the beaten track; of his having, when so drunk, managed to walk so far; of his having, in fine, entered the yard of Major Dwight's quarters. What could have suggested that? But Blenke knew no more than the dead. The only quarters of late he ever visited were those of Lieutenant Ray, where, said Blenke—and here the woe in his visage was indeed pathetic—he should never again dare show his face. Time had been—a happy time—when he had daily, almost hourly, duties at the quarters now occupied by Major Dwight, whom he so honored; but that was while his kind friends of Lieutenant Ray's household were still the occupants. Possibly in his dazed condition that memory was working in what was left of his brain. There was nothing to excuse or explain his wandering thither now, said Blenke. He had no mercy to ask. He deserved none. So the case was closed with a sizable fine, and the accused sent back to his company.

But the officer of the day had told a different tale, and the godless array at the bachelor mess was still having fun with it. FÉlicie, the self-styled French maid, had been from the start the object of no little interest among the non-commissioned element in garrison. FÉlicie was pious, if not actually pretty, and assiduous at first in Sunday morning attendance at the little Catholic church in town, whither Dwight's own horse and buggy and man were detailed to take her, for Inez could not think of placing her educated and traveled maid in the same category and wagon with the soldiers' wives. "Feelissy," from her very first appearance, was by no means popular with this critical sisterhood, and when it became evident that some of the best beaux among the sergeants were also moved to attend early church in Silver Hill, feeling grew strong against the usurper. Nor was the feeling modified by the fact soon discovered that the maid had higher aspirations. She was too good for the soldiers, said her commentators; but that goodness, said her defamers, wasn't proof against the wiles of those who had more money. Obviously the officers were aimed at in this observation, and it must be owned that FÉlicie's expressive eyes had sometimes wandered toward the mess, and that her glances fell not all on unresponsive others. The night of Blenke's wandering was windy. The officer of the day's little lantern blew out as he rounded a turn from the west gate toward the bluff behind the post of No. 4, to the end that he stumbled on the sentry unchallenged, and, when rebuked for his negligence, the sentry said he was troubled about something at Major Dwight's. He could have sworn, he said, the door to the high back stoop had opened just a moment ago, letting quite a streak of light into the darkness for the space of a few seconds, during which time he was almost sure he saw a slender feminine shape disappear into the house. Now, he could swear no one had entered the back gate for ten minutes, anyway, because he happened to be right there. If it was a woman, as he believed, she must have been out in the yard as much as those ten minutes, and perhaps someone was there with her that shouldn't be there. All this had the sentry urged in excuse of his failure to hear the approach of the officer of the day. It was a black, moonless, starless night, and the officer concluded to look. The board fence was high. He stepped within the gate, stumbled over a loose plank, made quite a noise and said a few audibly profane things as to the quartermaster's department for leaving walks in such shape, but he could see nothing. So in a sheltered nook he struck a match, and the instant he did so a man from the shadows lurched heavily against him, muttered, "Giv'sh—light—o' man" and sprawled in a heap at his feet. It proved to be Blenke, and Blenke proved to the satisfaction of the court that he was blind drunk.

But the officer of the day and his comrades at the mess were beginning to see light, as did the sentry on No. 4. Was it possible that FÉlicie, who scorned the advances of the more prominent of the rank and file, and had become an object of no little interest even to certain susceptible subalterns—had, after all, reserved her smiles for the dark-eyed, mournful, and romantic Blenke? If so, then Blenke had played the part of a man with the skill of a consummate actor.

"I've seen Willard; I've seen Wyndham," said the puzzled captain, "and I thought I'd seen 'David Garrick' played to perfection, but if Private Beauty Blenke, of Company 'C,' Sixty-first Foot, wasn't drunk as a lord that night, then Willard and Wyndham aren't in the business."