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"Would I not tell my dream, as nice young men in the Bible always did?"

The three of us pattered out of the stream abreast. "No trouble," replied the sergeant, "it wouldn't take half a minute."

"You'll be the first prisoner I ever shot if you get any funnier!"

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.

"You were so anxious to get the General's letter?" I asked.

It was the envelope which had contained Coralie Rothvelt's pass. Its four flaps were spread open, and on the inside was scrawled in a large black writing the following:

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