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The aide-de-camp laughed like a rustic and vanished. "Smith," said the Major, "your eyes are--"

"Borrowed!" echoed the sergeant. "If he doesn't own that mare no man does."

Once more we were in the by-road which had brought us westward parallel with the highway. The prisoner drove. Aunt Martha sat beside him, slim, dark, black-eyed, stately, her silver-gray hair rolled high à la Pompadour. With a magnanimity rare in those bitter days she incited him to talk, first of New Orleans, where he had spent a month in camp on one of the public squares, and then of his far northern home, and of loved ones there, mother, wife and child. The nieces, too, gave a generous attention. Only I, riding beside the hind wheels, held solemnly aloof.

"I think you know Lieutenant Durand?" asked the General, with a quizzical eye.

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

"A short three miles."

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