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

My silence implied that I knew it, though I did not feel any brighter, happier or cleaner.

"Yes, General, if I don't have to save the horse."

I almost leaped from the ground in consternation. My whole frame throbbed, my mouth fell open, my tongue was tied.

"Oh--I--just don't feel as if I could, that's all."

But why, then, this ardent zeal to save the necks of the two traitors "whose roof this night--" etc.? Manifestly she was moved by passion, not duty; love drove her on; but surely not love for them. "No," I guessed in a reverent whisper, "but love for Ned Ferry." It must have been through grace of some of her nobility and his, caught in my heart even before I was quite sure of it in theirs, that I sat and framed the following theory: Ned Ferry, loving Charlotte Oliver, yet coerced by his sense of a soldier's duty, had put passion's dictates wholly aside and had set about to bring these murderers to justice; doing this though he knew that she could never with honor or happiness to either of them become the wife of a man who had made her a widow, while she, aware of his love, a love so true that he would not breathe it to her while this hideous marriage held her, had ridden perilously in the dead of night to circumvent his plans if, with honor to both of them, it could be done.

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