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As the rider wheeled away I blurted out with anxious loudness in the general hubbub, "Isn't his brother with him?"

"Well, that might depend on who 'her' is." We had reached the cross-roads and he was turning south.

A sweet color was I. "Yes, that's what I said; Cockerel. Isn't your last name Cockerel?"

"No," he said, "my last name is Durand." He gave it the French pronunciation.

"Deserters, I don't doubt!" was my comment to the ladies. Tongue revenge is poor, but it is something.

His smile darkened. "I am your prisoner," he said, with a sudden splendid stateliness, and right then I guessed who he was.

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

"I'm most afraid," he said, abstractedly, as he read my detail, which Gholson brought in. "Here,"--he handed it to me--"and here, here's the despatch too."

"One too modest," I murmured, "to know her own portrait." I clutched the braid emotionally and let it go intending to retake it; but she dropped it behind her and said I was too imaginative to be safe.

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