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"We've got a letter for you from her!" exclaimed Camille.

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

The night was still and sultry. At one of the many camp-fires on the edge of the road I saw the Arkansas colonel sitting cross-legged on the ground, in trousers, socks and undershirt, playing poker.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes dragged by. Counting them helped me to lie still. Then I caught another pregnant sound, a mumbling of male voices in the adjoining front room. I waited a bit, hearkening laboriously, and then ever so gradually I slid from the bed, put on everything except my boots, and moved by inches to the door between the two rooms. It was very thin; "a good sounding-board," thought I as I listened for life or death and hoped my ear was the only one against it.

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