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"The horse may have to save you," drawled the Arkansan.

"Hmm; Charlotte Oliver. Are you sure you have the name just right?"

Rising to higher ground, we turned into the Natchez, and Port Gibson road where a farm-house and country "store" constituted Clifton. Still at a gallop we left these behind and entered a broad lane between fields of tasselling corn, where we saw a gallant sight. In the early sunlight and in the pink dust of their own feet, down the red clay road at an easy trot in column by fours, the blue-gray of their dress flashing with the glint of the carbines at their backs, came Ferry's scouts with Ned Ferry at their head. There was his beautiful brown horse under him, too. My captive and I dropped to a walk, the column did the same, and Ferry trotted forward, beckoning us to halt. His face showed triumph and commendation, but no joy. Oliver answered his scrutiny with a blaze of defiance.

"Lieutenant, she guessed! She must have just put two and two together and guessed! Or else, Lieutenant,--"

Ferry showed pain. "I know; save that for the General. And what else?"

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