race burned as a white flame in the heart of Lane and his comrade. But
it was not so much that spirit which held them erect, aloof, proud. It
was a supreme consciousness of immeasurable sacrifice for an ideal
that existed only in the breasts of men and women kindred to them--an
unutterable and never-to-be-spoken glory of the duty done for others,
but that they owed themselves. They had sustained immense loss of
health and happiness; the future seemed like the gray, cold, gloomy
expanse of the river; and there could never be any reward except this
white fire of their souls. Nameless! But it was the increasing purpose
that ran through the ages.

The ship docked at dark. Lane left Blair at the rail, gloomily gazing
down at the confusion and bustle on the wharf, and went below to
search for their comrade, Red Payson. He found him in his stateroom,
half crouched on the berth, apparently oblivious to the important
moment. It required a little effort to rouse Payson. He was a slight
boy, not over twenty-two, sallow-faced and freckled, with hair that
gave him the only name his comrades knew him by. Lane packed the boy's
few possessions and talked vehemently all the time. Red braced up,
ready to go, but he had little to say and that with the weary
nonchalance habitual with him. Lane helped him up on deck, and the
exertion, slight as it was, brought home to Lane that he needed help
himself. They found Maynard waiting.

"Well, here we are--the Three Musketeers," said Lane, in a voice he
tried to make cheerful.

"Where's the band?" inquired Maynard, sardonically.

"Gay old New York--and me broke!" exclaimed Red Payson, as if to