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Telling the sentinel to remain in the shade on the piazza, the lieutenant proceeded first to make O’Grady sit down in a big wicker arm-chair, for the man in his broken condition was well-nigh exhausted by his walk across the glaring parade in the heat of an Arizona noonday sun. Then he mixed and administered the counterpart of the beverage he had given his prisoner-patient in the morning, only in point of potency it was an evident falling off, but sufficient for the purpose, and in a few minutes O’Grady was able to swallow his breakfast with evident relish, meekly and unhesitatingly obeying every suggestion of his superior.

His breakfast finished, O’Grady was then conducted into a cool, darkened apartment, a back room in the lieutenant’s quarters.

“Now, pull off your boots and outer clothing, man, spread yourself on that bed, and go to sleep, if you can. If you can’t, and you want to read, there are books and papers on that shelf; pin up the blanket on the window, and you’ll have light enough. You shall not be disturbed, and I know you won’t attempt to leave.”

“Indeed, sir, I won’t,” began O’Grady, eagerly; but the lieutenant had vanished, closing the door after him, and a minute later the soldier had thrown himself upon the cool, white bed, and was crying like a tired child.

Three or four weeks after this incident, to the small regret of his troop and the politely-veiled indifference of the commissioned element of the garrison, Captain Buxton concluded to avail himself of a long-deferred “leave,” and turned over his company property to Mr. Billings in a condition that rendered it necessary for him to do a thing that “ground” him, so to speak: he had to ask several favors of his lieutenant, between whom and himself there had been no cordiality since the episode of the bivouac, and an open rupture since Mr. Billings’s somewhat eventful tour as officer of the day, which has just been described.

It appeared that O’Grady had been absent from no duty (there were no drills in that scorching June weather), but that, yielding to the advice of his comrades, who knew that he had eaten nothing for two days and was drinking steadily into a condition that would speedily bring punishment upon him, he had asked permission to be sent to the hospital, where, while he could get no liquor, there would be no danger attendant upon his sudden stop of all stimulant. The first sergeant carried his request with the sick-book to Captain Buxton, O’Grady meantime managing to take two or three more pulls at the bottle, and Buxton, instead of sending him to the hospital, sent for him, inspected him, and did what he had no earthly authority to do, directed the sergeant of the guard to confine him at once in the dark cell.

“It will be no punishment as he is now,” said Buxton to himself, “but it will be hell when he wakes.”

And so it had been; and far worse it probably would have been but for Mr. Billings’s merciful interference.

Expecting to find his victim in a condition bordering upon the abject and ready to beg for mercy at any sacrifice of pluck or pride, Buxton had gone to the guard-house soon after retreat and told the sergeant that he desired to see O’Grady, if the man was fit to come out.

What was his surprise when the soldier stepped forth in his trimmest undress uniform, erect and steady, and stood unflinchingly before him!–a day’s rest and quiet, a warm bath, wholesome and palatable food, careful nursing, and the kind treatment he had received having brought him round with a sudden turn that he himself could hardly understand.

“How is this?” thundered Buxton. “I ordered you kept in the dark cell.”

“The officer of the day ordered him released, sir,” said the sergeant of the guard.

And Buxton, choking with rage, stormed into the mess-room, where the younger officers were at dinner, and, regardless of the time, place, or surroundings, opened at once upon his subaltern: