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

"He noticed you," said Gholson; "he looked back at you and your bay. Wouldn't you like to turn back and see his horse?"

"Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?"

No, he would not; only wagons went that way, to cross the creek by a small bridge. I could cut off nearly two miles by taking the bridle-path that turned sharply down into the thick woods of the creek-bottom about a quarter of a mile from the house and crossed the stream at a sandy ford. "Ride round," he said, "and I'll show you from the front of the house."

"But, eh!" I exclaimed, "how could ever such as she mistake him for--"

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