"The city's just burning right up," she informed him, standing in the
middle of the floor; "the boats on the river caught fire and their
camions banged into Canal Street." She had a pale even color, a
straight delicate nose and sensitive lips.
"Are the Union troops in charge?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. They got some of the fire out, I heard tell. But that's not
the worst now--a body can't set her foot in the street, it's so full of
drunken roaring trash, black and white. It's good Mr. Roselle and Mr.
McCall and Mr. John are here," she declared again; "they could just
finish off anybody that offered to turn a bad hand."
This, Elim felt, was incongruous with his reception yesterday.
Still he made no inquiry. The breakfast finished, he relapsed once more
on his pillows and heard the key stealthily turn in the door from the
outside.
He told himself, without conviction, that he must rise and join his
command. The war, he knew, was over; the courage that had sustained him
during the struggle died. The simple question of the colored woman had
largely slain it. His own personality, the vision of his forthcoming
life and necessity, rose to the surface of his consciousness. Elim
realized what had drawn, him to his present situation--it had, of
course, been the memory of Rosemary Roselle. The days when he--an
assistant to a professor of philosophy and letters--had read and marked
her essays seemed to lie in another existence, infinitely remote.
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