Stuart was writing at his desk, by the
light of a candle in a captured "camp candlestick," and from time to
time, without turning his head, ejaculated some brief words upon any
subject which came into his head.
After writing ten minutes, he now said briefly:--
"Surry."
"General," was my as brief response."
"I think Mohun was a friend of yours?"
"Yes, general, we became intimate on the march to Gettysburg."
"Well, I have just received his commission--"
"You mean as--"
"Brigadier-general. You know I long ago applied for it."
"I knew that--pity he has not been exchanged."
"A great pity,--and you miss a pleasure I promised myself I would give
you."
"What pleasure, general?"
"To take Mohun his commission with your own hands."
"I am truly sorry I can not. You know he was terribly wounded, and we
had to leave him in Warrenton; then the enemy advanced; for a long time
we thought him dead. Thus I am sorry I am debarred the pleasure you
offer. Some day I hope to accept your offer."
"Accept it now, colonel," said a benignant voice at the door. I turned
suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was
seen--the head passed through--was followed by a body,--and Mr.
Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the
stealthy step of a wild-cat.
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