The friend of his youth was a
prisoner, under circumstances that endangered both life and honor. The
gentle companion of his toils, who could throw around the rude
enjoyments of a soldier the graceful mildness of peace, lay a bleeding
victim to his success. The image of the maid who had held, during the
day, a disputed sovereignty in his bosom, again rose to his view with a
loveliness that banished her rival, glory, from his mind.
The last lagging trooper of the corps had already disappeared behind the
northern hill, and the major unwillingly turned his horse in the same
direction. Frances, impelled by a restless inquietude, now timidly
ventured on the piazza of the cottage. The day had been mild and clear,
and the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. The tumult, which
so lately disturbed the valley, was succeeded by the stillness of death,
and the fair scene before her looked as if it had never been marred by
the passions of men. One solitary cloud, the collected smoke of the
contest, hung over the field; and this was gradually dispersing, leaving
no vestige of the conflict above the peaceful graves of its victims. All
the conflicting feelings, all the tumultuous circumstances of the
eventful day, appeared like the deceptions of a troubled vision. Frances
turned, and caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of him who had
been so conspicuous an actor in the scene, and the illusion vanished.
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