Armitage spent much time studying papers; and
once, the day after Armitage submitted his wounded arm to Oscar's care,
he had seemed upon the verge of a confidence.
"To save life; to prevent disaster; to do a little good in the world--to
do something for Austria--such things are to the soul's credit, Oscar,"
and then Armitage's mood changed and he had begun chaffing in a fashion
that was beyond Oscar's comprehension.
The little soldier rode over the hills to Lamar Station in the waning
spring twilight, asked at the telegraph office for messages, stuffed
Armitage's mail into his pockets at the post-office, and turned home as
the moonlight poured down the slopes and flooded the valleys. The
Virginia roads have been cursed by larger armies than any that ever
marched in Flanders, but Oscar was not a swearing man. He paused to rest
his beast occasionally and to observe the landscape with the eye
of a strategist. Moonlight, he remembered, was a useful accessory of the
assassin's trade, and the faint sounds of the spring night were all
promptly traced to their causes as they reached his alert ears.
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