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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 mumbled something about never wishing to tempt any one.

"Oh!--don't you wish you knew! Why, to myself, for instance. Come! duty calls."

"But if she--oh, yes!--Yes, to be sure; she could easily have got here yesterday afternoon."

"Why, I keep the plain road, don't I?"

"No, Lieutenant, I don't believe he had anything to do with it; and I've no absolute proof, either, that he was at the bridge to rob or kill me. I threatened his life first, sir. At any rate that hand under my pillow was neither his nor his father's."

"Never mind, we must have a long talk. At present there is a verbal message for me; what is it?"

"If Captain Jewett will only go on to union Church," said Ferry, "Quinn will see that he never gets back."

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