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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

I passed on, flattered but scandalized, wasting no guesses on how she knew me--if she really knew me at all--but taking my revenge by moralizing on her, to myself, as a sign of the times, until brigade headquarters were in full view, a few rods off the road; four or five good, white wall-tents in a green bit of old field backed by a thicket of young pines.

"What, a leather-curtained spring-wagon?"

"Do you want to see him?" I gathered my horse.

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"Pardon me, I know better. This is his scheme." She laid her free hand on our two. "Tell me you will not go to that house!"

He spurted a pint to reply, "Fishe's batt'ry."

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