Beverley read the paper when Clark sent for him; but he
could not join in the extravagant delight of his fellow officers
and their brave men. What did all this victory mean to him?
Hamilton to be treated as an honorable prisoner of war, permitted
to strut forth from the feat with his sword at his side, his head
up--the scalp-buyer, the murderer of Alice! What was patriotism
to the crushed heart of a lover? Even if his vision had been able
to pierce the future and realize the splendor of Anglo-Saxon
civilization which was to follow that little triumph at Vincennes,
what pleasure could it have afforded him? Alice, Alice, only
Alice; no other thought had influence, save the recurring surge of
desire for vengeance upon her murderer.
And yet that night Beverley slept, and so forgot his despair for
many hours, even dreamed a pleasant dream of home, where his
childhood was spent, of the stately old house on the breezy hill-
top overlooking a sunny plantation, with a little river lapsing
and shimmering through it. His mother's dear arms were around him,
her loving breath stirred his hair; and his stalwart, gray-headed
father sat on the veranda comfortably smoking his pipe, while away
in the wide fields the negroes sang at the plow and the hoe.
Sweeter and sweeter grew the scene, softer the air, tenderer the
blending sounds of the water-murmur, leaf-rustle, bird-song, and
slave-song, until hand in hand he wandered with Alice in greening
groves, where the air was trembling with the ecstacy of spring.
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