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"Did you"--he began, and stopped; "did you notice a"--he stopped again.

In the vocabulary of a prig, but in the wrath of a fishwoman, I execrated Scott Gholson; his jealousies, his disclosures, his religion, his mispronunciations; and Ned Ferry--that cockerel! Here was I in the barrel, and able only to squeal in irate terror at whoever looked down upon me. I could have crawled under a log and died. At the door of the Major's tent I paused to learn and joy of one to whom comes reprieve when the rope is on his neck, I overheard Harry Helm, the General's nephew and aide de-camp, who had been with us, telling what a howling good joke Smith had just got off on Gholson!

Through the shifting colonnades of pine, a hundred yards in front of us, came two horsemen in the same blue-gray of the pair beside me. "Whoever he is," I said, "that gray he's riding is his second best, or it's borrowed," for his mount, though good, was no match for him.

Whereat Cécile replied, "Ah--well! we cou'n' like you the leaz bit any-'ow."

"How long have you belonged to Ferry's scouts?" sceptically demanded their spokesman.

"What do you mean?" I demanded. "To whom are you pledged for any such--"

"And was care for me your only motive in--"

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