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Old Dismukes rose. "Good-night. Shall I send this boy that Yankee's horse?"

He admitted that by the true religionist's standard it was not honest, but reminded me that Ned Ferry--in his blindness--was only a poor romanticist. The despatch was addressed to Lieutenant Edgard Ferry-Durand.

"Too warm?"

"Ferry's scouts." He scrutinized me. "What command do you say you--"

"Yes,"--she put away gaiety--"your orders are plain; and they're as cruel as they are plain!"

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.

"Good-morning," he responded, tardily and grimly. "Well, you air in a hurry."

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