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I clenched my teeth. "I am nineteen, madam."

"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

"Unloose the west port and let us go free,"

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.

I almost leaped from the ground in consternation. My whole frame throbbed, my mouth fell open, my tongue was tied.

Turn away thine eyes, maiden passing fair. O maiden passing fair, turn away thine eyes!

"A short three miles."

"Ferry's scouts." He scrutinized me. "What command do you say you--"

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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