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"Have you met any officer riding toward them?"

The smoker twinkled. "You're different from Ned Ferry," he said.

"We've got a letter for you from her!" exclaimed Camille.

Once more we were in the by-road which had brought us westward parallel with the highway. The prisoner drove. Aunt Martha sat beside him, slim, dark, black-eyed, stately, her silver-gray hair rolled high à la Pompadour. With a magnanimity rare in those bitter days she incited him to talk, first of New Orleans, where he had spent a month in camp on one of the public squares, and then of his far northern home, and of loved ones there, mother, wife and child. The nieces, too, gave a generous attention. Only I, riding beside the hind wheels, held solemnly aloof.

"Read the address on your despatch," said Gholson, resuming his pen.

"Good-evening," replied the nearer man. "How far is it to camp--Austin's?"

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