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

"Who--o?" It was not one who asked; the whos came like shrapnel; and when, not knowing what else to do, I smiled as one dying, there went up a wail of mirth that froze my blood and then heated it to a fever. The company howled. They rolled over one another, crying, "Charlie Toliver!--Charlie Toliver!--Oh, Lord, where's Scott Gholson!--Charlie Toliver!"--and leaped up and huddled down and moaned and rolled and rose and looked for me.

I found but one white figure under the dim veranda eaves. "Miss Camille?"

"Yes," I replied, "in that direction."

"And the one following, almost at his side?"

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