University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Startled by Picter's sudden and brief communication,
Dora remained for some time seated where he had
left her, while her mind rapidly reviewed the very little
that she knew of her cousin Dick, and weighed the
probabilities of his being in the position of Mr. Brown's
attempted assassin, and of his possible motive in making
such an attempt.

Wearied, at last, of useless conjecture, the young girl
rose to visit her patients in the adjoining tents, before
seeking her own little nook, which communicated with
the outer hospital tent, where she now was.

In the second tent were the wounded rebel prisoners,
many of whom had before this recovered sufficiently to
be forwarded to Beverly jail, and from thence to Columbus,
where they were retained as exchanges for the federal
prisoners.

In one corner lay the stalwart fellow whose delirious
cries in the morning had so agitated Merlin.

Almost a giant in stature, he was of a swarthy and
forbidding countenance, and so violent at times in his
language and behavior, that the surgeon and chaplain

had forbidden Dora attempting to do anything for
him.

Since morning, however, a favorable change had taken
place in his condition, and he was now perfectly sane
and quiet, although much exhausted.

As Dora timidly paused near his bed, he faintly asked
for some water. She gave it him at once, saying kindly,
as she held the cup to his lips, —

“You feel better, now — don't you?”

“Yes. I reckon I've been pretty sick.”

“Yes, very sick. You have not had your senses at
all since you were wounded.”

“What sort of a wound is it?”

“A cut on your head from a sabre bayonet, the doctor
said.”

“I was in the ambush,” murmured the man, dreamily.

“I'm glad you are better. You'd better go to sleep
now,” said Dora, moving away.

“Hold on a minute. Be you a Yankee, or do you
belong round here?”

“Neither. I was born in Virginia, but I belong to a
federal regiment. I'm the vivandière,” said Dora, inwardly
hoping her hearer would not suspect how proud
she felt of the rank. “What is your name? We don't
know what to call you,” continued she, timidly, as the
man lay staring at her with his bold black eyes.

“My name's Judson, — Bob Judson, — and I ain't

ashamed to tell it to any one,” said the rebel, half defiantly.

“I'm glad of it. Good night,” returned Dora, hastily,
as she moved away.

A few moments later, she found herself beside Merlin's
bed. He was lying broad awake, and apparently
perfectly quiet; but his cheeks had a feverish glow upon
them, and his eyes a glitter, ominous to the young
nurse.

“You are not so well to-night,” said she, laying her
hand upon his forehead. “You are feverish. I will
bathe your face, and give you some of the drops to make
you sleep — shan't I?”

“No; I don't want anything at all, miss. I shall
go to sleep as soon as it's quiet here,” said the young
man, briefly.

Dora looked at him again. She noticed that one hand
was beneath his pillow, as if concealing something.

“It's the picture,” thought she, “and the other man
will be asking for it soon. I must get it.”

But a second thought suggested that it would be cruel
and unwise to deprive Merlin of what he appeared to
value so much, at this particular time, when a disturbance
or disappointment might break up his whole night's
rest, and seriously injure his health. She therefore
resolved to let the picture remain till morning, and with
a kind good night, left her patient to himself.

Retiring to her own tent, Dora dropped the curtain,
undressed, and after repeating her prayers as simply and
innocently as she had been wont to do at her mother's
knee, she composed herself to sleep.

But, although tired both in body and mind, she could
not rest. No sooner was she in quiet and darkness, than
fancy surrounded her with vague shapes of harm, and
whispered still vaguer warnings of danger to herself or
others close at hand. She thought again of Dick, and
wearied herself with conjectures as to his intentions
towards her and the chaplain, until at last she almost
fancied he was concealed in the very camp, and might at
any moment start up beside her bed, ready to murder
her as she lay, or drag her back a prisoner to his mother's
home.

Reasoning herself out of these idle terrors, Dora next
thought of Merlin, and his animosity to the rebel named
Judson; and she soon convinced herself that this, although
concealed, was quite as vehement now as in the
morning, when it had been so plainly shown.

As these fears and doubts pressed upon her mind,
Dora became more and more uneasy, until at last she
noiselessly rose from her bed, slipped on a part of her
clothing, stole softly out of her little cell across the empty
outer tent of the hospital, and slightly drawing away the
curtain between it and the second apartment, peeped in.

All was quiet, and by the feeble light of the night

taper, Dora could see that Judson was sleeping calmly
in the corner, with his left arm thrown up above his
swarthy face.

The patients were all so comfortable now, that only
one attendant was thought necessary for both rooms
during the night, and he was at present in the inner one.
The curtains were lowered between the two tents, and
Dora, moving as noiselessly as a spirit, passed through
the second, and peeped within the third. At the upper
end sat the nurse soundly sleeping, with his head upon
the table, where burned the night lamp. The sick men
were all quiet, and Merlin lay apparently in a heavy
sleep.

Dora stood silently beside the nurse, with intent to
wake him; but as she heard his deep breathing, and saw
how soundly he slept, her purpose changed.

“I am not sleepy,” said she to herself, “and he is,
poor fellow! I will sit here a little while, and not wake
him until I am ready to go to bed again.”

So Dora seated herself upon a box in the corner, and
leaning back against a bale of blankets, began her lonely
watch. For nearly an hour her senses remained as alert
as at the first; but then her eyelids began to droop; her
head rested against the comfortable cushion behind it;
the silent and dimly lighted tent, with its rows of sleeping
patients, grew indistinct and confused to her sight;
and Dora slept.

Not for long, however. Of a sudden, a thrill shot
through her frame, an indistinct horror seized upon her
even through her slumber, and while suddenly arousing
her mind to its full consciousness, laid a paralyzing
hand upon her bodily senses.

Through her half-opened eyelids she saw again the
tent, the sleepers, the nurse, still sleeping heavily with
the taper burning dimly beside him. She saw the covering
of one bed thrown aside, and a man's figure cautiously
arising from it. This man was Merlin; and Dora
watched as in a dream, while with slow, deliberate
movement he rose upright, steadied himself a moment on
his feet, as if to try his strength, glanced keenly at her
and at the nurse, and then drew from under his pillow a
long bright knife, or dirk.

Still as in a dream, Dora remembered that this knife
had formed part of the Kentuckian's accoutrements removed
when he was placed in bed the morning after the
battle, and she dimly wondered how he had regained
possession of it.

After a cautious pause, the gaunt figure began to move
silently and swiftly across the tent to where the curtain,
still looped aside, showed the interior of the second tent,
with the corner bed full in sight, where lay the stalwart
figure of the wonded rebel as Dora had last seen him,
his left arm thrown above his head, and his face upturned.

Noiselessly as a panther the ghost-like figure of the
Kentuckian crept towards this corner, and, as he moved,
Dora caught the glancing rays of pale light reflected from
the blade in his hand.

The nurse beside her stirred in his sleep, muttered a
few words, and heavily turned his head.

The gliding figure in the next room paused, looked
uneasily over his shoulder, at the same time thrusting
the knife into his bosom. But the break in the nurse's
dream was slight, and he presently slept again, as
soundly as before. Assured of this, Merlin crept noiselessly
forward; and now he stood beside his rival's bed,
stooping low to scan his features, while his right hand
stealthily emerged from his bosom, and again the yellow
light glanced shiveringly off the blade.

With a cautious movement the assassin drew down
the bed covering, and lightly placed his left hand upon
the breast of the sleeping man, as if to discover the
exact position of the heart, while the knife slowly rose
to the level of his head.

But at this awful sight — at this crisis in the history
of two men, both of whose lives hung upon the event
of the next moment — the frozen trance that had held
Dora enchained suddenly dissolved. With a mighty
effort she sprang to her feet, rushed through the two
tents, and as Merlin, startled by the light sound of her
approach, turned his head, she seized his uplifted arm in
both her hands, and steadily confronted him.

For a moment the man glared angrily at this child
who dared to throw herself between him and his purpose,
and struggled impatiently with her clinging grasp. But,
as his eyes met those true and steady ones, fixed in reproachful
horror upon him, his own wavered and fell,
the uplifted arm sank to his side, and his mouth lost the
hard, fierce curve it had held.

Then Dora, feeling her power without reasoning upon
it, said, in a low voice, —

“Give me the knife, Merlin.”

After an instant's hesitation, the man obeyed. Throwing
it upon the bed behind them, the girl motioned forward,
and, still clinging to his arm, led her captive to
the division curtain, and, pointing to his bed, whispered,
—

“Go and lie down before the nurse wakes.”

Without reply, Merlin did as he was bid; and Dora
after returning to secure the knife, roused the nurse,
telling him that she had kept watch for him through the
last two hours, and now was going to her own quarters.

The man, mortified at this mild reproof, was profuse
in apologies, and was so evidently determined to keep
himself awake during the rest of his watch, that Dora
felt quite safe in leaving matters under his charge.

As she passed out of the tent, Merlin called to her,
appealingly, to speak with him a moment; but Dora

only shook her head in reply. A natural horror of the
contemplated deed, and of the man himself, had already
replaced the calm courage that had enabled her to confront
him, and it seemed to her as if she could never be
willing to approach him again.

In the second tent she paused a moment to replace the
covering over Judson's broad breast, wondering, as she
did so, if no ugly dream, no dim horror, such as had
assailed herself, had waked in this man's mind, to warn
him of the horrible danger that had so closely overshadowed
him.

But Dora's light touch effected what the hand of the
murderer had not; and as she drew the blanket around
his shoulders, the man stirred, opened his wide black
eyes, and, with a pleasant smile, murmured, —

“I'm coming, Nelly,” and then dropped asleep again.

Dora, creeping away to her own little bed, wondered
if Nelly was the original of the photograph so valued by
both these men, and also what Nelly would have said
and thought, could she have known the events of the last
hour; and then, utterly exhausted by fatigue, agitation,
and anxiety, she threw herself upon her bed, and slept
heavily through the few remaining hours of night.