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

Rills of perspiration tickled my back like flies. "Can't one man do the work?"

The flap fell again and my panic was turned into a joy qualified only by a reduced esteem for my general as a judge of character.

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

"Why haven't I got it right?"

The half-hour dragged round to four. My horse roused up but kept as quiet as a clever dog. I heard a light sound in the hall; first a step and then a slide, then a step again and then a slide; Lucius Oliver was coming toward my door. The cords gathered in my throat and my finger stole to the trigger; Heaven only knew what noiseless feet might be following behind that loathsome shuffle. It reached the door and was still. And now the door opened, softly, slowly, and the paralytic stood looking in. The moonlight had swung almost out of the room, but a band of it fell glittering upon the revolver lying in my lap with my fingers on it, each exactly in place. Also it lighted my other hand, on the window-sill, with the bridle in it. Old Lucius was alone. In the gloom I could not see his venom gathering, but I could almost smell it.

The groans of the wounded man closed in behind it, a flood of agony, and my own outcry increased the din as I called "Come quick, come quick! the wounded fellow's remounting!"

"Two Federal officers."

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