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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.

"Don't interrupt me, Smith. Yes, Clifton. You're not to reach there to-night--"

The night was still and sultry. At one of the many camp-fires on the edge of the road I saw the Arkansas colonel sitting cross-legged on the ground, in trousers, socks and undershirt, playing poker.

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

I said with genuine warmth that if he would give me that man's name--etc.

"Good-morning, Smith, who is your prisoner?"

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