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"Are you not a New Orleans boy?" she asked as I lifted my képi and drew rein.

"Well, that might depend on who 'her' is." We had reached the cross-roads and he was turning south.

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

A plague on names! But I was not done with them yet. We met other scouts coming out of the east, who also gave reports and went on westward, sometimes through the trackless woods. At a broad cross-road which spanned the whole State from the Alabama line to the Mississippi River stood another sergeant, with three men, waiting. They were the last.

The aunt and her nieces were standing in the carry-all, she majestic, they laughing and weeping in the one act. I waved them into their seats.

"No, not so easy; but those fellows are Arkansans, and they're in a bad humor with me."

He smiled, chirped the horses up and resumed his chat. I heard him praise my horse and compare him not unfavorably with his own which he had lost that morning'. He and a few picked men had been surprised in a farmhouse at breakfast. They had made a leap and a dash, he said, but one horse and rider falling dead, his horse, unhurt, had tumbled over them, and here was his rider.

"I see."

"Those? That one is the Virgin's sheaf; and those two are the Balances."

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