weighed down by the heavy saber

Voices rose louder on the front walk, Captain Jaffery’s curt and questioning, Hugh’s shrill with foolish laughter, Rhett’s deep and reckless and Ashley’s queer, unreal, shouting: “What the hell! What the hell!” 　“That can’t be Ashley!” thought Scarlett wildly. “He never gets drunk! And Rhett—why, when Rhett’s drunk he gets quieter and quieter—never loud like that!” 　Melanie rose and, with her, Archie rose. They heard the captain’s sharp voice: “These two men are under arrest.” And Archie’s hand closed over his pistol butt. 　“No,” whispered Melanie firmly. “No. Leave it to me.” 　There was in her face the same look Scarlett had seen that day at Tara when Melanie had stood at the top of the steps looking down at the dead Yankee, her weak wrist weighed down by the heavy saber—a gentle and timid soul nerved by circumstances to the caution and fury of a tigress. She threw the front door open. 　“Bring him in, Captain Butler,” she called in a clear tone that bit with venom. “I suppose you’ve gotten him intoxicated again. Bring him in.” 　From the dark windy walk, the Yankee captain spoke: “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wilkes, but your husband and Mr. Elsing are under arrest.” 　“Arrest? For what? For drunkenness? If everyone in Atlanta was arrested for drunkenness, the whole Yankee garrison would be in jail continually. Well, bring him in, Captain Butler—that is, if you can walk yourself.” 　Scarlett’s mind was not working quickly and for a brief moment nothing made sense. She knew neither Rhett nor Ashley was drunk and she knew Melanie knew they were not drunk. Yet here was Melanie, usually so gentle and refined, screaming like a shrew and in front of Yankees too, that both of them were too drunk to walk.