T

I.

HUMAN NATURE FAILS.

HE army before Monterey had bivouaced for the night upon a ridge fronting the bishop's palace, awaiting the attack of the morrow. The pickets were posted after a reconnaissance as far as the Saltillo road had demonstrated that the Mexicans were determined to make a stubborn resistance. On the outer line of pickets, Captain Brown's company of Ohio volunteers, which had been doing guard duty for an entire week, was stationed. The men were nearly exhausted, and with much difficulty kept awake during the single hour they were retained on guard.

Clarence Duvall was on the line immediately in front of Ampudia's army, and with heavy step and almost closing eyes, walked up and down his beat. The moon was sailing gracefully through a sea of fleecy clouds, as though conscious. that when it came again to light the earth it would look down upon a scene of carnage.

Grasping his gun in one hand and his rosary in the other, Clarence asked the assistance of the Queen of Heaven that he might be given strength to perform his duty, and not be found asleep at his post, for he had been on guard for three nights with scarcely any time for rest. during the day. For some time he had suspected that his sergeant wished to disgrace him in some way because he had won the love of the lady whose hand both had sought. He was also aware of the great danger and the penalty should he fall asleep on guard in front of the enemy.

When he had completed five decades of the rosary he felt stronger and hoped to keep awake until relief, now long overdue, should come. He did not for a moment imagine that his sergeant had arranged for the relief to pass him by, and that the other pickets had long since

been called in.

As he silently trod his way through the scrubby pines, over the mosses and lichens that covered the scoria with a verdure so soon to be dyed with blood, his thoughts went back to his home in Cincinnati, and to the loved one who he imagined was gazing at the same moon that lighted his lonely path; and he was consoled by the thought that she was probably praying for him at that trying moment. But the weight soon came back to his eyes, and he tried every remedy he had ever heard of to get rid of it. He dared not stop for a single moment to rest, for he knew that should he do so, he would instantly fall asleep.

"This cannot last," he said to himself, "for human nature cannot much longer endure this strain. How hard it is to suffer when one does the best he can. Away, sleep, you shall not have me disgraced. I will conquer, not for myself alone but for her, who would suffer far more than I, should I fail in this trying hour. Should I fall to-morrow, it would only add one more to the list of those 'accounted for,' and she would regard my death as a sacrifice for my country; but she would despise me were I to be disgraced."

In another moment his strength gave out, and he fell unconscious to the ground. Scarcely had he fallen, before the relief came and he was found, as it was supposed, asleep at his post. He was rudely taken to the guardhouse and

placed in charge of Sergeant Wallace, whose face was lighted with a cynic smile when he saw how successful had been his infamous plot to ruin Clarence who would not now be likely to go back to Cincinnati to claim the lovely Agnes. The sergeant hastened to report to the officer of the day the arrest of private Clarence Duvall for the serious crime of sleeping at his post in front of the enemy on the eve of battle. He was careful to present the case in the worst light, concealing the fact that the prisoner was, when found, unconscious from sickness, and that he had been on guard for three nights with little or no rest. The officer was made to understand that the safety of the army had been imperiled by the carelessness of the prisoner.

"I will remember you, Ben," said Sergeant Wallace to his first corporal when he had seen Clarence securely placed in the guardhouse. "You have served me well and I will not forget you. I will exchange these hateful sergeant's stripes before long for gold bars. Then a certain young lady will not be so indifferent when I go home. She thought she cared for that doll faced boy we have just started on the downward track, but it was because she imagined he was a soldier, and not a baby who should never have been permitted to leave the nursery. Agnes is wild over this war and advised all her friends to enlist. What will she think now of the one favored to the exclusion of her best friends?"

"Yes, Charlie," replied the Corporal, "our plans succeeded well, but somehow I don't like this business. We three were chums in the old burg, and fellow clerks in the Governor's establishment; and when Agnes came down to see us off for Mexico, she told us for her sake to stand together; that if one was wounded the others were to bring him off of the field at the risk of their lives. She preferred Clarence, and it does seem

a little rough that we won't give him a chance. But you know 'all things are fair in love and war,' and you are in both. That is my excuse for siding with you. You must stand close to that uncle who has a strong pull at headquarters and try to get a commission and then you must get me one. Who can say that we will not both go home as officers regulars? That would pay us for to-night's work, which I must say I don't altogether like, for I hate to play a harsh game with the boy, although I was beginning to dislike him because he was always finding fault with us for not going to Mass; as though men were expected to run to church and pray like women. Still, I cannot forget that the boy has no father to help him out of the scrape we have got him into. I heard to-day that old Zac. is mighty severe on men found sleeping at their posts. Suppose Clarence is shot. Then I would never forgive myself, for no commission nor advance in salary, if I must go back to my desk, would pay me for what I have helped to do for you."

"You talk like a child, Ben. Do you suppose I would let the baby be shot? I can save him in spite of old Zac., and get us both commissions. I won't stay in the army very long but a commission will help me in another direction, for then I will have no trouble to win the young lady, and with her, something better than the army. You know Agnes said 'the young man who does not enlist in the army shall never dance with me.' So when Clarence goes home in disgrace she will show him less favor than old Zac. The engagement will be broken at once, and my time will come. The old Governor intends to take into the firm his son-in-law. That will be me. If you fail to get a commission, up you go to my place and you are paid for all you have done for me."

"You are a fine schemer, Charlie, and I sha'n't desert you; but keep an eye on

Clarence, and see that he is not shot. I tell you it is a serious matter."

"Don't refer to that again. I have influence enough to save him and shall do it. My only intention is to have him. disgraced and sent home. There is one thing you must not forget, if you want to save yourself. That is when you are before the court martial that the boy was not kept on guard all of three nights. If the Captain hears the truth, we will suffer and not Clarence. you must be on your guard and not allow your tender heart to get us both into trouble."

So

"Don't fear, Charlie, I'll not neglect self; but what I want to do is to look after our own interest and at the same time save Clarence. We can do it, can't we?"

"Don't be silly, Ben, and talk like a sixteen year old boy who has just been let loose by his mother. Clarence is in no danger. Of course, he'll be tried by court martial, and being a volunteer, he will be dishonorably discharged from the army and sent home. After the fight of to-morrow he will be thankful that he was kept in the guardhouse thus and given a chance to get home as he was when he left. The trial will be over within three days, unless the battle to come off here delays it. Then we must forget it. But now I must go But now I must go and write Agnes the sad news, and tell her how sorry we all are that Clarence is in trouble, which we will try to get him out of."

II.

TWO TO ONE.

"Aha," said Tom Bittenger, the big Second Corporal, "so I've found you out, my pearl, and you the son of a good Catholic mother, who would be heartily ashamed of you, could she hear your talk to-night. Mr. Sergeant Wallace will be a little surprised to learn that

the young lady will get two letters from the army in Mexico, and one of them will be from Mr. Corporal Bittenger. Then the boot'll be on the other foot, but it won't be on the foot of my ambitious First Sergeant, when the court gets through with this case. I'll have a word to say myself, but it will be two against one, and one of the two a First Sergeant and the other only a Corporal. That destroys the equilibrium of things considerably, for I learned a great many years ago that two is greater than one. So the one must go to work and find another one that it may be at least two against two, thus restoring the equilibrium.” Tom's musings were disturbed by the appearance of Sergeant Wallace, who asked:

"What are you doing here, Corporal, by my tent?"

"Well, Charlie, you see I am out for an evening smoke. It may be my last, as to-morrow we are to charge on the residence of His Lordship, which is perched on that hill like an eagle's nest on a tree. Are there any orders, Sergeant?" added Tom, assuming a military air.

"No orders," replied the sergeant, patronizingly. "Have a cigar, and throw that blasted pipe away."

"Thank you, Charlie, but I never desert an old friend," friend," retorted retorted Tom proudly, holding up his briarwood. "You see I brought this from home, and we two are friends from the old town, and you will not ask me to forsake a friend from there."

The sarcasm expressed in the tone in which Tom said this excited the sergeant's suspicion, and he quickly demanded:

"How long have you been standing here by my tent?"

Tom was strictly truthful, and he had no intention of departing from his usual custom, although it would require some diplomacy to answer the sergeant's question without giving offence; but

"Unfortunately, I left my gold chro nometer at home, and I did not think it worth while to count the seconds as you and I used to do at school when three o'clock was approaching. You must excuse me and charge it to my ignorance."

"Then I suppose you've been eavesdropping, have you?" retorted the sergeant sharply.

"The rules of war read to us every week don't say that a second corporal is bound to answer answer every impertinent question that a first sergeant may ask."

"Be serious, for once, Tom," said the sergeant, changing his manner, "and tell me whether you heard what Ben and I were saying."

"Your personal interrogatory reflects upon my honor as a soldier of the United States Army, so I decline to answer."

"Oh, well, it makes no difference whether you did or did not," interrupted the sergeant, "but I want to talk to you regarding your testimony before the court that will try Clarence Duvall for sleeping at his post. You were present when he was found, I believe?"

"No need of talking to me on that subject. I shall tell the truth, and will be glad to know that you and Ben intend doing the same."

"What do you mean, you scoundrel?" demanded the sergeant angrily.

"Your language, Mr. Sergeant, is very unsoldierlike, and unless you immediately apologize, I'll report you for using 'provoking speech to an officer' contrary to the Articles of War," said Tom, with exasperating coolness.

"Nonsense, old chum," rejoined Wallace, puzzled to comprehend just what the big corporal meant, or what he might do, as he was apparently familiar with the Articles of War. "You know I am your best friend, and would not insult you for anything. I was only

"Then jest with those who like it, and not with me," said Tom, as he strode away, after making a mocking salute.

"I must watch that fellow; he is dangerous and may spoil my plans," said Wallace to himself. "He is too honest, and would not hesitate to tell the truth. He hasn't forgotten his catechism like the rest of us. But the worst of it is he can't be bribed nor scared like Ben can. He would charge the bishop's palace single handed if ordered, and not think he had done anything extraordinary. I must be careful and win his friendship if possible."

III.

THE SENTENCE.

The battle of Monterey had been fought, and the stronghold of the enemy captured with the loss of one hundred and twenty killed and three hundred and thirty-seven wounded. Among the wounded was Second Corporal Bittenger. When the storm of shot and shell ceased and the silence of the battlefield was disturbed only by the moans of the wounded and the dying, or by the cry of the night bird, a number of Mexican women, who during the day, like the heroines of ancient Greece and Rome, aided and encouraged their compatriots, and when fathers, husbands or lovers fell, took their places, manned the guns, and wielded the lance and sabre-these now hurried to the assistance of the wounded naught distinguishing between friend or foe; guided by the teachings of the Catholic Church, which gathers all to her loving bosom, as a good mother clasps to her breast her children, without distinguishing the good from the erring.

While the women of Monterey made of their arms "pillows for those who groaned and bled," they were. more

careful in administering to the souls of the dying than to the material wants of the living. One of these noble women was prayerfully walking over the battlefield, searching for those in need of aid, when she heard the moans of an American soldier. She at once knelt on the ground by the side of Tom Bittenger, who was apparently mortally wounded. She bandaged his wounds and bathed his brow, and was about to pass on to aid others when he begged her to bring a priest to hear his last confession. It was with difficulty that she at last found. a padre, whom she piloted to the side of the sufferer. When Tom had made his confession, he was carried to an improvised hospital. His wounds were found to be so serious he could not be moved, and he with a few others were left in the

care of the noble Mexican women when the army moved on.

When Tom was able to converse intelligently he asked the good priest to write to his captain and say that he had important testimony to give relative to the charges of private Duvall, which the court-martial should hear before deciding the case. Having had no experience with courts-martial Tom hoped that this letter would cause a delay in the trial until he could join the army, provided he was ever able to do so; if not, that the charges would be dismissed.

There was little time for courts-martial in an army that was kept busy marching and fighting until the close of the war. During the many sieges, skirmishes and battles, Tom was in the hospital, while Clarence was under arrest awaiting trial. How deeply he regretted that he was not permitted to take part in these was known only to himself. He would gladly have risked his life in the most dangerous charge rather than remain unemployed while his fellow soldiers were fighting for their country, but his greatest trial was the thought that he had been disgraced in the estimation of Agnes, to whom he

did not intend to write while a cloud hung over his good name. He knew that it would be a humiliation to her to receive a letter from her fiancé excusing his weakness on that unfortunate night, for he felt assured that she had been informed of the fact that he had been found asleep at his post, and he was determined not to try to clear himself before the court had passed on his case.

While the army lay before the City of Mexico, Clarence was ordered before a court-martial. He had no witnesses, and as a matter of course, was convicted. He was permitted to make a statement, which made a decided impression on the court. He told his story calmly and said that he had been on duty three nights without time to sleep during the day, that he had tried every expedient to keep awake and fell at the post of duty while walking his round. Wallace stated that he had not been required to perform more duty than the other members of his company, and that he alone had fallen asleep. The appearance of Clarence was that of a typical soldier and his bearing under the trying ordeal was so dignified that the court was moved to deal with him leniently. The sentence was three years imprisonment and a dishonorable discharge from the army. He heard the decision without the twitching of a muscle, and calmly saluting the officers was taken to the guardhouse to await an opportunity to be sent to the United States to serve his sentence in a military prison.

The war was over, and after the signing of the treaty of Guadaloupe Hidalgo, the victorious army returned to receive the plaudits of the people. But all did not come back. Some found everlasting resting-places in the enemy's country. Others elected to remain in the newly acquired territory, and seek their fortunes among the people for whom they had gone forth to battle. Among the latter was Tom Bit