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"Do you want to see him?" I gathered my horse.

"No," replied Sergeant Jim, "I doubt if the most of 'em are." I turned to him and drew down my under eyelid. "Will you kindly tell me, sir, if you see any unnatural discoloration in there?"

"Nor no woman?" I asked, and again across the back of my neck my two companions gazed at each other.

"Yet what?" I snapped out, with horse eyes.

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.

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

Turn away thine eyes, maiden passing fair. O maiden passing fair, turn away thine eyes!

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