he lay was covered only with a worn quilt, which had been woven on one of the hand looms still in use among the Cajans. Once attractive, now it was filthy and stained with the black vomit of the yellow plague. His body was covered with only a gingham shirt and trousers of the same goods. Loathsome, burning with fever, now screaming with delirium, and anon quietly lying in an almost comatose condition. If ever a hand was needed to minister to another in distress, it was there.

Quietly going to the side of the sufferer, Dr. Nelson gently touched the fevered brow. He recognized at once that it was was the yellow fever and through neglect had developed into its most malignant form. That there was no chance for recovery was evident. The only thing that could be done was to make the poor fellow as comfortable as possible and see that he did not die alone.

First, he went to the edge of the bayou, where the ice had been left in the shade, and bringing it back to the cabin, cracked some of it and putting it into the only cup that was in the hut, fed it bit by bit to the dying man.

The cool touch of the ice to his parched lips seemed to bring his senses to him, and opening his eyes, he asked: "Are you the priest?" the question being put in the Cajan patois.

"No, I am only the doctor," answered the surgeon.

"Bring the priest," screamed the man, the doctor's answer by its disappointment unbalancing the almost worn-out brain.

"Give the priest the gold. The gold. I no want it. The gold has eyes. Look! See the dago's eyes. There-there-in the corner!" and springing from the cot, he crouched as if to jump, but the little strength he had was exhausted by the effort to rise and he fell senseless to the floor.

The doctor with difficulty raised him, and straightening the cot, and his

scanty clothes, placed him upon it again.

"Water! water! give me water!" he cried in a moment or two. "Not blood -water-water-God! I burn in hell and not a drop of water! Give water -not-blood! Why you give me blood to drink?"

Feeding him with ice the doctor finally quieted his ravings enough to allow him to administer an injection of some soothing medicine, and the suf ferer fell asleep.

While he rested, the surgeon removed the refuse from the cabin and burned it. He emptied the water barrel that stood by the door, and formed the breeding place of thousands of the mosquitoes, which he knew were the only conveyors of yellow fever. He returned to the hut just in time to see his patient open his eyes, without the vacant stare of the delirious, but with the light of reason in them.

"Will you give my gold to the priest?" was the startling question that greeted him, and made him doubt if he was not mistaken as to the light of reason being in his patient's face. A calm survey of the features convinced him that the man knew what he was saying, so he answered:

"What gold do you mean?"

"My God, don't you know? 'Tis the dago's gold."

"Where did you get it?" the doctor said.

"Jo Breaux, the Syrian dago peddler give it me," he answered, with an expression of cunning akin to insanity on his face.

Immediately the slender chords of reason and memory seemed to snap, and he ran into incoherence, mumbling:

"Jo, my friend-Elidia, she love Albert--he rich-me poor-poor-Jo, my friend, he make me rich-he give me gold-red gold-gold with blood on it. Jo, he get killed, he go home dead." Then stupefaction overcame him.

"Look! Regard! Eyes-eyes of God

-Jo's eyes-there-there-in the corner! Look!" he screamed out again in a short time.

Going to the corner to see if there was not something which if removed would quiet the poor fellow's ravings, the doctor found only the end of a canvas bag, such as is used to carry currency in, half concealed by the broken stones of the fire place. He drew out the bag and in doing so the coins in it jingled as only gold and silver coins do. Startled and surprised by the heaviness of the bag, and the quantity of money it contained, the doctor looked at the man on the cot.

His eyes were open now, and with

firmness he said:

"Doctor, give it to the priest.'

"Tell me the story," demanded the doctor, thinking it would ease the burdened mind to tell it to some one.

"No, you tell me want priest Father Roquet. He no tell," and shaking his head he turned his face to the wall.

The doctor looked at him as he lay with his arm thrown over the bundle of rags that served as a pillow. The strength of manhood that had once been his portion was his no more, but the muscles that could be plainly seen, told their own tale of hard, hard, manual labor. The grime of the fields was still on his hands and feet, but the face and neck, which the doctor had bathed, gave token of having once been full of manly beauty. The unkempt hair and beard of softest brown, was of silken fineness, and the eyes were lustrous and even now, with the glare of fever in them, were not lacking in beauty. The big brown eyes and the soft, fine hair were the only heritage of gentle blood that had come down to him.

Turning again to Dr. Nelson and showing that his strength was fast ebbing away, by the difficulty with which he enunciated, the Cajan said:

"Me kill Jo one night on prairie-me

get gold-God's eyes look at me from sky all time-Jo, he my friend-me want gold, marry Elidia-Albert he go marry with her. Gold-got blood on it

got eyes on it-God's eyes all over prairie. Regard-there, blood on the gold-Jo's blood-give it to priest. Give me absolution. I die. Oh, God

my friend, Jo-Jo's eyes-they-" then his voice grew weaker and weaker and stooping to hear, the doctor could just make out, "Follow-me-followme-hell."

The silence of death settled on the hut on the bayou bank, and the dying man looked up into the doctor's face only once more to stay: "Give priestab-sol-ve-me."

Dr. Nelson walked to the door of the hut, as if the breath of disease and crime was too heavy for a mortal man to bear. He remembered reading in the papers of the murder-or suicide-of the Syrian peddler, whose little blue wagon was a familiar sight to the "habitants" from whom he made his living, taking orders for the enlargements of photographs into crayon portraits of atrocious workmanship, but much admired by the Cajans. The pictures ordered by many of his friends had been delivered and collections made, and it was believed that he had a large sum of money with him as he started in to the railroad station where he had made. his headquarters. But, when the Cajan pony was found standing at the door of the stable, there was no Jo Breaux in the wagon.

Searching parties started out, and found the body, lying in the pool of his own blood near the bridge across one of the coulees, several miles from the town. There were no evidences of a struggle, no money could be foundonly the dead man with his own stiletto in his heart. Placed there, as the doctor now knew, by the treacherous hand of his friend. The stars which shine in the midnight sky, must have been the "eyes of God" about which the Cajan

raved. Full well the doctor knew that the Cajan habit of keeping a light burning through all the hours of the night, makes the prairie look as if the stars had fallen to the earth, and the idle fancies of the conscience stricken man, had found them his silent accusers, until pestilence and death had claimed him for their own.

"Chuck, chuck, chuck," said the gasoline engine of the launch long before it turned the point and came into view. The doctor waved to the men, and they came up to the cabin.

"Take your spades, Jess, and you, Tom, dig a grave and let us bury this body at once," was the command given.

Into the quickly-made hole, lime was put, the body was wrapped in the coverlet from the cot, and lowered into the

grave.

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes," said Dr. Gates, as he crumbled some earth and let it fall into the open grave.

"God rest his soul," said Dr. Nelson. The negroes filled it in with the earth,

placed a board to mark the head and foot, and then proceeded to pile into a heap everything that could be burned about the premises. This was soon done, fire was started and just as darkness covered the earth, the little party took its place in the launch to return to civilization once more.

In Dr. Nelson's case was a canvas bag which he would deliver to the priest with instructions to use it in caring for the sufferers by yellow fever in the Cajan homes.

Soon,

"Chuck, chuck," said the engine; "swish, swish," said the water, but the flames that lighted the sky and brought into view the lonely spot, seemed to hesitate about making a sound. however, this timidity was overcome and roaring and hissing they mounted skyward. Waiting only to see that the destruction would be complete the boat went forward with full speed and soon there came to their watching eyes only a lurid reflection against the sky to tell to at least one of the number that the Cajan's expiation was complete.

Back on the Old Firing Line-The Rapidan

H

AVING, after two years of severe schooling and high-priced experience, at last brought the Federal horse of the Army of the Potomac up to a stand of efficiency and being considerably in excess in numbers and vastly better in equipment and appointment than its adversary, the commander of the cavalry of the Potomac Army now kept up considerable friction with the same arm of the service of its opponent, striking quite frequently at exposed positions.

On September 20, 1863 most of the batteries of the horse artillery of Stuart's division were bivouacking at and near Locust Dale in the fork of the Robertson and Rapidan rivers, as the pasturage was fair in that section. On the 21st, General Buford, with his division swung loose from the right of General Meade's army for a forage upon the extreme left of the line of the Army of Northern Virginia. Detouring well to his right, he consumed the most of the day in marching and maneuvering for a surprise attack upon the left of the Confederate line.

On the 22d, Hampton's old First Brigade, depleted by the fierce Gettysburg campaign to less than 1,000 effectives, held the Confederate left. Buford moved steadily, and Stuart strenuously tried to stem his advance at Jack's Shop, and with mounted charges attempted to check Buford's progress. Failing in these, he dismounted a portion of his command with but little better success.

While thus contending with Buford, Kilpatrick brought his division upon Stuart's left and gained possession of

the wall in Stuart's rear, cutting him off from the ford at Liberty Mills. The crack of the sharpshooters betokened the approach of battle. The horse artillery horses were pasturing when the sound of the guns advised the cannoneers there was something doing. Hastily the cannoneers and drivers caught up the horses and harnessed and hitched up.

As the enemy advanced rapidly, there was some confusion in the batteries. The Jeff Davis Legion moved toward the sound of the firing to interpose between the unprepared guns and the enemy. This command had not proceeded far before it encountered the advance of the enemy. Mounted skir

mishers were moved to the front and on the Federal uncovering the timber, the crack of a gray trooper's carbine emptied a Federal saddle. This one casualty caused a halt and further maneuvering, which enabled the horse. artillery to extricate itself from its perilous position and secure advantageous positions on the hills on the hither bank of the Rapidan. That one casualty on this part of the line that caused a "stay of proceedings," may well be classed as a "lucky shot," for that delay gave the batteries time to get from out of the cul du sac and into effective position where their fire became of immense service to Stuart.

When Stuart was apprised his rear was seriously threatened, he attempted to withdraw from Buford's front. But Buford, in the present parlance of the street, was "on to his game" and declined to be thus abruptly left, and pressed upon Stuart with considerable vigor.

It looked like Stuart had been at last trapped. He had led his men into

and out of some exceedingly dangerous positions. Here he was, with but a fraction of his command with a division of comparatively fresh Federal cavalry assaulting him in front and one in his rear. The battle was brought within the compass of an open field, near the centre of which a little hill gave position for some of the Confederate artillery. The scene was now extremely animated. Stuart's artillery from this hill was firing in both directions and within sight of each other, his regiments were charging in opposite directions. If Kilpatrick could have maintained his position, Stuart must at least have lost his guns, but two regiments were directed against him and compelled him to relinquish his hold on the road and retire in the direction from which he had advanced.

"One of these regiments charged, mounted, up to the fence, behind which Kilpatrick's men were dismounted, threw down the fence in their faces and cleared the road for Stuart's retreat," writes Maj. McClellan.

Having effected this, Stuart withdrew rapidly from contact with Buford and crossed the ford at Liberty Mills. The artillery which had been extricated from the near-trap at Locust Dale now barked lively in the face of Buford, and finding his quarry beyond his reach, that officer gave up the attack. Kilpatrick, meantime, had proceeded down the left bank of the Rapidan and that night, under the bright light of the harvest moon, bivouacked at Harrison's farm.

That night there came an epoch in this writer's military career that may permit him to trespass upon the readers. of these articles.

Reference was made in the preceeding chapter to a tart engagement between Pleasanton and Stuart in the suburbs of. Culpeper, wherein wherein the writer's horse was killed and himself slightly wounded.

On the 21st, one of Hamilton's scouts

returned from a returned from a venture upon the enemy's front and advised the writer if he would go with him he felt satisfied he could levy upon the blue cavalry for mounts for both of them. A day or two before he had investigated the enemy's pickets and located a post on the Hazel river. That night he cautiously advanced until he came upon a mounted viditte. In low but determined words he said: "Surrender and get off that horse!" His pistol had the business end toward the blue trooper, who seemed not to have comprehended the demand-probably thought some of his men were trying a practical joke on him. He, however, attempted to draw his pistol when McIlwaine fired, sending a ball through his body. He made a grasp for the horse's bridle with his left hand at the same time, but the flash and report of the pistol caused the horse to wheel and flee to the rear. The riderless horse quickly roused the picket reserves and they promptly distributed along the river bank. Scout McIlwain had to unceremoniously take to the Hazel river, keeping only his nose and eyes above water. Any movement on his part brought a snort from the Federal picket's horse, and the click of the cocking of his gun. The position was not enviable. The water was cold, for the air temperature was near the frost point. The scout was more than an hour moving one hundred and fifty yards to where he could secure the shelter of a friendly shadow and slip out of the enforced bath.

Returning to camp he advised the writer he would profit by that experience and was sure we could each secure a mount at Uncle Sam's expense. Our direction lay in the route Kilpatrick took after his withdrawal from contact with Stuart. Kilpatrick's men got to the Harrison farm before McIlwain and the writer arrived, and when we sought information, we were warned by the farmer to get a move on us or we would soon be annexed by the