His enormous constitution defied fatigue.
All at once I saw that there was another personage in the tent. He was
a young man of about twenty, of slight figure, beardless face, and an
expression so shy and retiring that he seemed ready to blush if you
spoke to him. He wore, nevertheless, the uniform of a captain of
artillery; and I remember wondering how this girlish and shrinking
personage, with the large, sad eyes, had come to hold a commission.
"Captain Davenant, of my horse artillery, Colonel Surry," said Stuart.
The youth colored, and then with an air of painful embarrassment took a
step forward and pressed my hand. The grasp of the slender fingers was
like the grip of a steel vice.
"Davenant has been on a scout across the Rappahannock, to keep his hand
in," said Stuart, busily writing. "My horse artillery boys do a little
of every thing--and Davenant is a wild-cat, Surry, with a touch of the
bull dog, in spite of his looks!"
The young officer drew back blushing more than ever at these words. His
confusion seemed to deprive him of the power of utterance.
"I'll bet he's blushing now!" said Stuart, laughing and continuing to
write with his back turned, as he spoke. "He is blushing or
sighing--for the poor Yankees he has killed, doubtless!"
"You are laughing at me, general," said the young man timidly.
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