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In the vocabulary of a prig, but in the wrath of a fishwoman, I execrated Scott Gholson; his jealousies, his disclosures, his religion, his mispronunciations; and Ned Ferry--that cockerel! Here was I in the barrel, and able only to squeal in irate terror at whoever looked down upon me. I could have crawled under a log and died. At the door of the Major's tent I paused to learn and joy of one to whom comes reprieve when the rope is on his neck, I overheard Harry Helm, the General's nephew and aide de-camp, who had been with us, telling what a howling good joke Smith had just got off on Gholson!

"And a suit of unie-fawm!" called Cécile, with her Creole accent.

A plague on names! But I was not done with them yet. We met other scouts coming out of the east, who also gave reports and went on westward, sometimes through the trackless woods. At a broad cross-road which spanned the whole State from the Alabama line to the Mississippi River stood another sergeant, with three men, waiting. They were the last.

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

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"How long have you belonged to Ferry's scouts?" sceptically demanded their spokesman.

"They're going down into the woods together!"

"Yes," I responded, "and without even waiting for Diana."

"Those? That one is the Virgin's sheaf; and those two are the Balances."

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