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"Well,--yes,--he--he is,--with some."

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.

"Yes, General, if I don't have to save the horse."

"Good-bye." I could barely hear it.

"You promised her--what did you promise her?"

The thunder of our own hoofs Was all the sound we heard.

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