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"Did you"--he began, and stopped; "did you notice a"--he stopped again.

"Well, say; maybe you'll tell us who this is we're about to meet up with."

The pair took our pace, the man plying me with questions, and his wife, in front, telling Lieutenant Durand all the rumors of the day. Her scant hair was of a scorched red tone, she was freckled down into her collar, her elbows waggled to the mare's jog, and her voice was as flat as a duck's. Her nag had trouble to keep up, and her tiny faded bonnet had even more to keep on. Yet the day was near when the touch of those freckled hands was to seem to me kinder than the breath of flowers, as they bathed my foul-smelling wounds, and she would say, in the words of the old song, "Let me kiss him for his mother," and I should be helpless to prevent her. By and by the man raised his voice:--

"What do you see?" His frown scared me to my finger-tips.

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

"No."

"How long have you belonged to Ferry's scouts?" sceptically demanded their spokesman.

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