And he owed his life to his victorious enemy.
He was but a boy, and his defeat was gall and wormwood to him.

It was but very little sweetened by the knowledge that his victor had come to ask after him.
He was lying in bed one afternoon, lonely and homesick and sad.

His father was away, and no one had been in to him for, perhaps, an hour.
The shrill voices of children and the shouts of boys floated in at the open window from somewhere afar off.

He was not able to join them.

It depressed him, and he began to pine for the old plantation--a habit that followed him through life in the hours of depression.
Suddenly there was a murmur of voices outside the room, and after a few moments the door softly opened, and a lady put her head in and looked at him.