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when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"That's a lie," he pleasantly remarked, and lay back, enjoying my silent wrath. "Send him, General," he added, "he's your man."

The General looked at me between puffs of his cigar. "I hear you've ridden over fifty miles to-day."

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

"Slightly."

"That will do. Now, beyond Fayette, about seven miles north, there's a place--"

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.

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