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

"Well, no. It's the horse he captured the time he got the Yankee who had him prisoner."

To show him how little I cared for any girl's age whose father preferred not to mention it, I reverted to his sister and brother. She was in New Orleans, he said, with her nieces, but might at any moment be sent into the Confederacy, being one of General Butler's "registered enemies." The brother was--

"Thank you, I couldn't let you take so much trouble--or risk."

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

I turned upon her choking with anger, but her melting beauty rendered me helpless. Black woods were on our left. "Shall we turn in here?" I asked.

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