The Special Messenger drew her buckskin gloves carefully through her belt and buttoned the holster of her revolver.

"I have seen war, too," she said; "and the men who dealt death and the men who received it. Their mystery remains—the glamour of a man remains for me—because he is a man."

"I have heard them crying like children in the stretchers."

"So have I. That solves nothing."

But the Nurse went on:

"And in the wards they are sometimes something betwixt devils and children. All the weakness and failings they attribute to women come out in them—fear, timidity, inconsequence, greed, malice, gossip! And, as for courage—I tell you, women bear pain better."

"Yes, I have learned that.... It is not difficult to beguile them either; to lead them, to read them. That is part of my work. I do it. I know they are afraid in battle—the intelligent ones. Yet they fight. I know they are really children—impulsive, passionate, selfish, often cruel—but, after all, they are here fighting this war—here encamped all around us throughout these hills and forests.... They have lost none of their glamour for me. Their mystery remains."

The Volunteer Nurse looked up with a tired smile:

"You always were emotional, dear."

"I am still."

"You don't have to drain wounds and dry out sores and do the thousand unspeakable offices that we do."

"Why do you do them?"

"I have to."

"You didn't have to enlist. Why did you?"

"Why do the men enlist?" asked the Nurse. "That's why you and I did—whatever the motive may have been, God knows.... And it's killed part of me.... You don't cleanse ulcers."

"No; I am not fitted. I tried; and lost none of the romance in me. Only it happens that I can do—what I am doing—better."

The Nurse looked at her a trifle awed.

"To think, dear, that you should turn out to be the celebrated Special Messenger. You were timid in school."

"I am now.... You don't know how afraid a woman can be. Suppose in school—suppose that for one moment we could have foreseen our destiny—here together, you and I, as we are now."

The Nurse looked into the stained hollow of her right hand.

"I had the lines read once," she said drearily, "but nobody ever said I'd be here, or that there'd be any war." And she continued to examine her palm with a hurt expression in her blue eyes.

The Special Messenger laughed, and her lovely, pale face lighted up with color.

"Don't you really think you are ever going to be capable of caring for a man again?"

"No, I don't. I know now how they're fashioned, how they think—how—how revolting they can be.... No, no! It's all gone—all the ideals, all the dreams.... Good Heavens, how romantic—how senseless we were in school!"

"I am still," said the Special Messenger thoughtfully. "I like men.... A man—the right one—could easily make me love him. And I am afraid there are more than one 'right one.' I have often been on the sentimental border.... But they died, or went away—or I did.... The trouble with me is, as you say, that I am emotional, and very, very tender-hearted.... It is sometimes difficult to be loyal—to care for duty—to care for the Union more than for a man. Not that there is any danger of my proving untrue——"

"No," murmured the Nurse, "loyalty is your inheritance."

"Yes, we—" she named her family under her breath—"are traditionally trustworthy. It is part of us—our race was always, will always be.... But—to see a man near death—and to care for him a little—even a rebel—and to know that one word might save him—only one little disloyal word!"

"No man would save you at that expense," said the Nurse disdainfully. "I know men."

"Do you? I don't—in that way. There was once an officer—a noncombatant. I could have loved him.... Once there was a Confederate cavalryman. I struck him senseless with my revolver-butt—and I might have—cared for him. He was very young.... I never can forget him. It is hard, dear, the business I am engaged in.... But it has never spoiled my interest in men—or my capacity for loving one of them. I am afraid I am easily moved."

She rose and stood erect, to adjust her soft riding hat, her youthfully slender figure in charming relief against the window.

"Won't you let me brew a little tea for you?" asked the Nurse. "Don't leave me so soon."

"When do you go on duty?"

"In about ten minutes. It will be easier to-morrow, when we send our sick North. Will you come in to-morrow?"

The Special Messenger shook her head dreamily.

"I don't know—I don't know.... Good-by."

"Are you going on duty?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now."

The Nurse rose and put both arms around her.

"I am so afraid for you," she said; "and it has been so good to see you.... I don't know whether we'll ever meet again——"

Her voice was obliterated in the noisy outburst of bugles sounding the noon sick-call.

They went out together, where the Messenger's horse was tied under the trees. Beyond, through the pines, glimmered the tents of an emergency hospital. And now, in the open air not very far away, they could hear picket firing.

"Do be careful," said the blue-eyed Nurse. "They say you do such audacious things; and every day somebody says you have been taken, or hanged, or shot. Dear, you are so young and so pretty——"

"So are you. Don't catch fever or smallpox or die from a scratch from a poisoned knife.... Good-by once more."

They kissed each other. A hospital orderly, passing hurriedly, stopped to hold her stirrup; she mounted, thanked the orderly, waved a smiling adieu to her old schoolmate, and, swinging her powerful horse westward, trotted off through the woods, passing the camp sentinels with a nod and a low-spoken word.

Farther out in the woods she encountered the first line of pickets; showed her credentials, then urged her horse forward at a gallop.

"Not that way!" shouted an officer, starting to run after her; "the Johnnies are out there!"

She turned in her saddle and nodded reassuringly, then spurred on again, expecting to jump the Union advance-guard every moment.

There seemed to be no firing anywhere in the vicinity; nothing to be seen but dusky pine woods; and after she had advanced almost to the edge of a little clearing, and not encountering the outer line of Union pickets, she drew bridle and sat stock still in her saddle, searching in every direction with alert eyes.

Nothing moved; the heated scent of the Southern pines hung heavy in the forest; in the long, dry swale-grass of the clearing, yellow butterflies were flying lazily; on a dead branch above her a huge woodpecker, with pointed, silky cap, uttered a querulous cry from moment to moment.

She strained her dainty, close-set ears; no sound of man stirred in this wilderness—only the lonely bird-cry from above; only the ceaseless monotone of the pine crests stirred by some high breeze unfelt below.

A forest path, apparently leading west, attracted her attention; into this she steered her horse and continued, even after her compass had warned her that the path was now running directly south.

The tree-growth was younger here; thickets of laurel and holly grew in the undergrowth, and, attempting a short cut out, she became entangled. For a few minutes her horse, stung by the holly, thrashed and floundered about in the maze of tough stems; and when at last she got him free, she was on the edge of another clearing—a burned one, lying like a path of black velvet in the sun. A cabin stood at the farther edge.

Three forest bridle paths ran west, east, and south from this blackened clearing. She unbuttoned her waist, drew out a map, and, flattening it on her pommel, bent above it in eager silence. And, as she sat studying her map, she became aware of a tremor in the solid earth under her horse's feet. It grew to a dull jarring vibration—nearer—nearer—nearer—and she hastily backed her horse into the depths of the laurel, sprang to the ground, and placed both gauntleted hands over her horse's nostrils.

A moment later the Confederate cavalry swept through the clearing at a trot—a jaunty, gray column, riding two abreast, then falling into single file as they entered the bridle path at a canter.

She watched them as they flashed by among the pines, sitting their horses beautifully, the wind lifting the broad brims of their soft hats, the sun a bar of gold across each sunburned face.

There were only a hundred of them—probably some of Ashby's old riders, for they seemed strangely familiar—but it was not long before they had passed on their gay course, and the last tremor in the forest soil—the last distant rattle of sabre and carbine—died away in the forest silence.

What were they doing here? She did not know. There seemed no logical reason for the presence of Stuart's troopers.

For a while, awaiting their possible collision with the Union outposts, she listened, expecting the far rattle of rifles. No sound came. They must have sheered off east. So, very calmly she addressed herself to the task in hand.

This must be the burned clearing; her map and the cabin corroborated her belief. Then it was here that she was to meet this unknown man in Confederate uniform and Union pay—a spy like herself—and give him certain information and receive certain information in return.

Her instructions had been unusually rigid; she was to take every precaution; use native disguise whether or not it might appear necessary, carry no papers, and let any man she might encounter make the advances until she was absolutely certain of him. For there was an ugly rumor afloat that the man she expected had been caught and hanged, and that a Confederate might attempt to impersonate him. So she looked very carefully at her map, then out of the thicket at the burned clearing. There was the wretched cabin named as rendezvous, the little garden patch with standing corn and beans, and here and there a yellowing squash.

Why had the passing rebel cavalry left all that good food undisturbed?

Fear, which within her was always latent, always too ready to influence her by masquerading as caution, stirred now. For almost an hour she stood, balancing her field glasses across her saddle, eyes focused on the open cabin door. Nothing stirred there.

At last, with a slight shiver, she opened her saddle bags and drew out the dress she meant to wear—a dingy, earth-colored thing of gingham.

Deep in the thicket she undressed, folded her fine linen and silken stockings, laid them away in the saddle bags together with waist and skirt, field glasses, gauntlets, and whip, and the map and papers, which latter, while affording no information to the enemy, would certainly serve to convict her.

Dressed now in the scanty, colorless clothing of a "poor white" of the pine woods, limbs and body tanned with walnut, her slender feet rubbed in dust and then thrust stockingless into shapeless shoes, she let down the dark, lustrous mass of her hair, braided it, tied it with faded ribbon, rubbed her hands in wood mold and crushed green leaves over them till they seemed all stained and marred with toil. Then she gathered an armful of splinter wood.

Now ready, she tethered her horse, leaving him bitted and saddled; spread out his sack of feed, turned and looked once more at the cabin, then walked noiselessly to the clearing's edge, carrying her aromatic splinters.

Underfoot, as she crossed it, the charred grass crumbled to powder; three wild doves flickered up into flight, making a soft clatter and displaying the four white feathers. A quail called from the bean patch.

The heat was intense in the sun; perspiration streaked her features; her tender feet burned; the cabin seemed a long way off, a wavering blot through the dancing heat devils playing above the fire-scorched open.

Head bent, she moved on in the shiftless, hopeless fashion of the sort of humanity she was representing, furtively taking her bearings and making such sidelong observations as she dared. To know the shortest way back to her horse might mean life to her. She understood that. Also she fully realized that she might at that very instant be under hostile observation. In her easily excited imagination, all around her the forest seemed to conceal a hundred malevolent eyes. She shivered slightly, wiped the perspiration from her brow with one small bare fist, and plodded on, clutching her lightwood to her rounded breast.

And now at last she was nearing the open cabin door; and she must not hesitate, must show no suspicion. So she went in, dragging her clumsily-shod feet.

A very young man in the uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer was seated inside before the empty fireplace of baked clay. He had a bad scar on his temple. She looked at him, simulating dull surprise; he rose and greeted her gracefully.

"Howdy," she murmured in response, still staring.

"Is this your house?" he asked.

"Suh?" blankly.

"Is this your house?"

"I reckon," she nodded. "How come you-all in my house?"

He replied with another question:

"What were you doing in the woods?"

"Lightwood," she answered briefly, stacking the fragrant splinters on the table.

"Do you live here all alone?"

"Reckon I'm alone when I live heah," sullenly.

"What is your name?" He had a trick of coloring easily.

"What may be yoh name, suh?" she retorted with a little flash of Southern spirit, never entirely quenched even in such as she seemed to be.

Genuine surprise brought the red back into his face and made it, worn as it was, seem almost handsome. The curious idea came to her that she had seen him before somewhere. At the same moment speech seemed to tremble on his lips; he hesitated, looked at her with a new and sudden keenness, and stood looking.

"I expected to meet somebody here," he said at length.

She did not seem to comprehend.

"I expected to meet a woman here."

"Who? Me?" incredulously.

He looked her over carefully; looked at her dusty bare ankles, at her walnut-smeared face and throat. She seemed so small, so round-shouldered—so different from what he had expected. They had said that the woman he must find was pretty.

"Was yuh-all fixin' to meet up with me?" she repeated with a bold laugh.

"I—don't know," he said. "By the Eternal, I don't know, ma'am. But I'm going to find out in right smart time. Did you ever hear anybody speak Latin?"

"Suh?" blankly; and the audacity faded.

"Latin," he repeated, a trifle discomfited. "For instance, 'sic itur.' Do you know what 'sic itur' means?"

"Sick—what, suh?"

"'Sic itur!' Oh, Lord, she is what she looks like!" he exclaimed in frank despair. He walked to the door, wheeled suddenly, came back and confronted her.

"Either, ma'am, you are the most consummate actress in this war drama, or you don't know what I'm saying, and you think me crazy.... And now I'll ask you once for all: Is this the road?"

The Special Messenger looked him full in the eyes; then, as by magic, the loveliest of smiles transfigured the dull, blank features; her round shoulders, pendulous arms, slouching pose, melted into superb symmetry, quickening with grace and youth as she straightened up and faced him, erect, supple, laughing, adorable.

"Sic itur—ad Astra," she said demurely, and offered him her hand. "Continue," she added.

He neither stirred nor spoke; a deep flush mounted to the roots of his short, curly hair. She smiled encouragement, thinking him young and embarrassed, and a trifle chagrined.

"Continue the Latin formula," she nodded, laughing; "what follows, if you please——"

"Good God!" he broke out hoarsely.

And suddenly she knew there was nothing to follow except death—his or hers—realized she made an awful mistake—divined in one dreadful instant the unsuspected counter-mine beneath her very feet—cried out as she struck him full in the face with clenched fist, sprang back, whipping the revolver from her ragged bodice, dark eyes ablaze.

"Now," she panted, "hands high—and turn your back! Quickly!"

He stood still, very pale, one sunburned hand covering the cheek which she had struck. There was blood on it. He heard her breathless voice, warning him to obey, but he only took his hand from his face, looked at the blood on palm and finger, then turned his hopeless eyes on her.

"Too late," he said heavily. "But—I'd rather be you than I.... Look out of that window, Messenger!"

"Put up your hands!"

"No."

"Will you hold up your hands!"

"No, Messenger.... And I—didn't—know it was you when I came here. It's—it's a dirty business—for an officer." He sank down on the wooden chair, resting his head between both hands. A single drop of blood fell brightly from his cut cheek.

The Special Messenger stole a swift, sidelong glance toward the window, hesitated, and, always watching him, slid along the wall toward the door, menacing him at every step with leveled revolver. Then, at the door, she cast one rapid glance at the open field behind her and around. A thrill of horror stiffened her. The entire circle of the burned clearing was ringed with the gray pickets of rebel cavalry.

The distant men sat motionless on their horses, carbine on thigh. Here and there a distant horse tossed his beautiful head, or perhaps some hat-brim fluttered. There was no other movement, not one sound.

Crouching to pass the windows beneath the sills she crept, heedless of her prisoner, to the rear door. That avenue to the near clustering woods was closed, too; she saw the glitter of carbines above the laurel.

"Special Messenger?" She turned toward him, pale as a ghost. "I reckon we've got you."

"Yes," she said.

There was another chair by the table—the only other one. She seated herself, shaking all over, laid her revolver on the table, stared at the weapon, pushed it from her with a nervous shudder, and, ashy of lip and cheek, looked at the man she had struck.

"Will they—hang me?"

"I reckon, ma'am. They hung the other one—the man you took me for."

"Will there be a—trial?"

"Drumhead.... They've been after you a long, long while."

"Then—what are you waiting for?"

He was silent.

She found it hard to control the nervous tremor of her limbs and lips. The dryness in her throat made speech difficult.

"Then—if there is no chance——"

He bent forward swiftly and snatched her revolver from the table as her small hand fell heavily upon the spot where the weapon had rested.

"Would you do that?" he said in a low voice.

The desperate young eyes answered him. And, after a throbbing silence: "Won't you let me?" she asked. "It is indecent to h-hang a—woman—before—men——"

He did not answer.

"Please—please—" she whispered, "give it back to me—if you are a—soldier.... You can go to the door and call them.... Nobody will know.... You can turn your back.... It will only take a second!"

A big blue-bottle fly came blundering into the room and filled the silence with its noise. Years ago the big blue flies sometimes came into the quiet schoolroom; and how everybody giggled when the taller Miss Poucher, bristling from her prunella shoes to her stiff side-curls, charged indignantly upon the buzzing intruder.

Dry—eyed, dry—lipped, the Messenger straightened up, quivering, and drew a quick, sharp breath; then her head fell forward, and, resting inert upon the table, she buried her face in her arms. The most dangerous spy in the Union service—the secret agent who had worked more evil to the Confederacy than any single Union army corps—the coolest, most resourceful, most trusted messenger on either side as long as the struggle lasted—caught at last.

The man, young, Southern, and a gentleman's son, sat staring at her. He had driven his finger-nails deep into his palms, bitten his underlip till it was raw.

"Messenger!"

She made no response.

"Are you afraid?"

Her head, prone in her arms, motioned dull negation. It was a lie and he knew it. He looked at the slender column of the neck—stained to a delicate amber—at the nape; and he thought of the rope and the knot under the left ear.

"Messenger," he said once more. "I did not know it was you I was to meet. Look at me, in God's name!"

She opened her eyes on him, then raised her head.

"Do you know me now?" he asked.

"No."

"Look!"

He touched the scar on his forehead; but there was no recognition in her eyes.

"Look, I tell you!" he repeated, almost fiercely.

She said wearily: "I have seen so many men—so many men.... I can't remember you."

"And I have seen many women, Messenger; but I have never forgotten you—or what you did—or what you did——"

"I?"

"You.... And from that night I have lived only to find you again. And—oh, God! To find you here! My Messenger! My little Messenger!"

"Who are you?" she whispered, leaning forward on the table, dark eyes dilating with hope.

He sat heavily for a while, head bowed as though stunned to silence; then slowly the white misery returned to his face and he looked up.

"So—after all—you have forgotten. And my romance is dead."

She did not answer, intent now on every word, every shade of his expression. And, as she looked, through the numbness of her desperation, hope stirred again, stealthily.

"Are you a friend?" Her voice scarcely sounded at all.

"Friends die for each other," he said. "Do you expect that of me?"

The silence between them became terrible; and at last he broke it with a bitter laugh:

"You once turned a boy's life to romance—riding through it—out of it—leaving scars on his brow and heart—and on his lips the touch of your own. And on his face your tears. Look at me once more!"

Her breath came quicker; far within her somewhere memory awoke, groping blindly for light.

"Three days we followed you," he said. "On the Pennsylvania line we cornered you; but you changed garb and shape and speech, almost under our eyes—as a chameleon changes color, matching the leaf it hides on.... I halted at that squatter's house—sure of you at last—and the pretty squatter's daughter cooked for us while we hunted you in the hills—and when I returned she gave me her bed to sleep on——"

Her hand caught at her throat and she half rose, staring at him.

"Her own bed to sleep on," he repeated. "And I had been three days in the saddle; and I ate what she set before me, and slept on her bed—fell asleep—only a tired boy, not a soldier any longer.... And awoke to meet your startled eyes—to meet the blow from your revolver butt that made this scar—to fall back bewildered for a moment—half-stunned—Messenger! Do you know me now?"

"Yes," she said.

They looked breathlessly at one another; suddenly a hot blush covered her neck and face; and his eyes flashed triumph.

"You have not forgotten!" he cried.

And there, on the very edge of death itself, the bright shame glowed and glowed in her cheeks, and her distressed eyes fell before his.

"You kissed me," he said, looking at her.

"I—I thought I had—killed you—" she stammered.

"And you kissed me on the lips.... In that moment of peril you waited to do that. Your tears fell on my face. I felt them. And I tell you that, even had I been lying there dead instead of partly stunned, I would have known what you did to me after you struck me down."

Her head sank lower; the color ran riot from throat to brow.

He spoke again, quietly, yet a strange undertone of exaltation thrilled his voice and transfigured the thin, war-worn features she had forgotten, so that, as she lifted her eyes to him again, the same boy looked back at her from the mist of the long dead years.

"Messenger," he said, "I have never forgotten. And now it is too late to forget your tears on my face—the touch of your lips on mine. I would not if I could.... It was worth living for—dying for.... Once—I hoped—some day—after this—all this trouble ended—my romance might come—true——"

The boy choked, then:

"I came here under orders to take a woman spy whose password was the key to a Latin phrase. But until you stood straight in your rags and smiled at me, I did not know it was you—I did not know I was to take the Special Messenger! Do you believe me?"

"Yes."

The boy colored painfully. Then a queer, pallid change came over his face; he rose, bent over her where she rested heavily on the table:

"Little Messenger," he said, "I am in your debt for two blows and a kiss."

She lifted a dazed face to meet his gaze; he trembled, leaned down, and kissed her on the mouth.

Then in one bound he was at the door, signaling his troopers with drawn sabre—as once, long ago, she had seen him signal them in the Northern woods.

And, through the window, she saw the scattered cavalry forming column at a gallop, obeying every sabre signal, trotting forward, wheeling fours right—and then—and then! the gray column swung into the western forest at a canter, and was gone!

The boy leaning in the doorway looked back at her over his shoulder and sheathed his sabre. There was not a vestige of color left in his face.

"Go!" he said hoarsely.

"What?" she faltered.

"Go—go, in God's name! There's a door there! Can't you see it?"

* * * * *

She had been gone for a full hour when at last he turned again. A bit of faded ribbon from her hair lay on the table. It was tied in a true lover's knot.

He walked over, looked at it, drew it through his buttonhole and went slowly back to the door again. For a long while he stood there, vague-eyed, silent. It was nearly sunset when once more he drew his sabre, examined it carefully, bent it over one knee, and snapped the blade in two.

Then, with a last look at the sky, and standing very erect, he closed the door, set his back firmly against it, drew his revolver, and looked curiously into the muzzle.

A moment later the racket of the shot echoed through the deserted house.



V

RED FERRY

When Private Allen of Kay's Cavalry deserted with headquarters' dispatch pouch, and headed straight for Dixie, there was a great deal of consternation and excitement on the north bank of the river, and a considerable amount of headlong riding. But on the tenth day he slipped through the cordon, got into the woods, and was making for the river when a patrol shot at him near Gopher Creek, but lost him in the impenetrable cypress swamp beyond.

However, the pursuit was pushed forward to the very edge of the enemy's country; Kay's troopers patrolled the north bank of the river and watched every road and ford; east and west Ripley's and Haynes's brigades formed impassable curtains.

Somewhere in this vast corral lay hidden a desperate, starving man; and it was only a question of time before the hunted creature broke cover for the water.

That a trooper had deserted with arms and equipment was generally known; but that, in his nocturnal flight, he had also taken vitally important papers was known at first only to Kay and later to the Special Messenger, who was sent to him post-haste from corps headquarters when the fugitive headed for the river.

Now, the south bank of the stream being in the enemy's territory, Kay had not ventured to station patrols above the clay banks opposite, lest rumor of invasion bring Stuart's riders to complicate a man chase and the man escape in the confusion.

And he explained this to the Special Messenger at their first conference.

"It ought to be guarded," insisted the Messenger tranquilly. "There are three good fords and a ferry open to him."

"I hold the fords on this side," argued Kay; "the ferryboat lies in the eel-grass on the south shore."

"Stuart's riders might cross if they heard of this trouble, sir!"

"And if they see Union troops on the south bank they'll cross, sure pop. It won't do, Messenger. If that fellow attempts the fords we'll catch him, sure; if he swims we may get him in the water. The Lord knows I want him badly, but I dare not invite trouble by placing vedettes across the stream.... There's a ferryman over there I'm worried about, too. He'd probably come across if Allen hailed him from the woods.... And Allen was thick with him. They used to fish together. Nobody knows what they hatched out between them. It worries me, I can tell you—that ferry."

The Messenger walked to the tent door and looked thoughtfully at the woods around her. The colonel rose from his camp stool and followed her, muttering:

"I might as well try to catch a weasel in a wall, or a red horse in the mud; and how to go about it I don't know." With set jaws and an angry spot glowing in his gaunt cheeks, he stared wickedly around him and then at the Messenger. "You do miracles, they say. Can't you do one now?"

"I don't know, sir. Who is this deserter?"

"Roy Allen—a sullen, unwilling dog—always malingering. He's spent half the time in the guardhouse, half in the hospital, since he arrived with the recruits. Somebody got an idea that he'd been hit by the sun, but it's all bosh. He's a bad one—that's all. Can you help me out?"

The Messenger nodded.

"You say he's fond of fishing?"

"Crazy about it. He was often detailed to keep us in food when rations ran low. Then the catfish made us sick, so I stopped his fishing. Then he took French leave."

"I want two troopers this evening, Colonel. May I have them?" she asked thoughtfully. "I'm going to keep house at Red Ferry for a while."

"All right, ma'am. Look out for him; he's a bad one."

But the Messenger shook her head, smiling.

At ten o'clock that night the Special Messenger, mounted astride and followed by two cavalrymen with carbines, rode down through the river mist to Bushy Ford.

Daintily her handsome horse set foot in the water, hesitated, bent his long, velvety neck, sniffed, and finally drank; then, satisfied, stepped quietly forward, hock-deep, in the swirling, yellow flood.

"Foller them stakes, Miss," cautioned the older trooper; "I sot 'em m'self, I did."

"Thank you. Keep close to me, Connor. I've crossed here before it was staked."

"Sho!" exclaimed Connor under his breath; "she do beat 'em all!"

Twice, having no light but the foggy stars, they missed the stakes and her horse had to swim, but they managed to flounder safely back to the ford each time; and after a little while her mount rose, straining through the red mud of the shore, struggled, scrambled madly, and drew out, dripping.

Up a slippery, crooked ascent they rode, out into a field of uncut corn above, then, spurring, swung at a canter eastward along the river.

There was a dim light in the ferry house; a lubberly, fat man ran to the open door as they drew bridle before it. When the fat man saw the blue troopers he backed hastily away from the sill and the Messenger dismounted and followed him into the house, heavy revolver swinging in her gloved hand.

"What'n hell y'goin' to do to me?" he began to whimper; "I ain't done nothin'"; but an excess of fright strangled him, and he continued to back away from her until he landed flat against the opposite wall. She followed and halted before him, cocking her weapon, with a terrible frown. She said solemnly:

"I want you to answer me one or two questions, and if you lie to me it will be the last time. Do you understand?"

He nodded and moistened his thick lips, gulping.

"Then you are the ferryman, Snuyder, are you not?"

He nodded, utterly incapable of speech. She went on, gloomily:

"You used to fish sometimes with a Yankee recruit named Allen—Roy Allen?"

"Ye-s'm," he sniveled. "There's my fish-pole an' his'n layin' onto the roof——"

"How did he hail you when he wanted you to come across to take him fishing?"

"He jest come down to the shore an' hollered twicet——"

She bent closer, scanning his dilated eyes; speech died on his lips.

"How did he call to you at night?"

"He ain't never called me at night—so help me——"

"No; but in case he ever wished to fish at night?"

The man began to stammer and protest, but she covered him suddenly, and her dark eyes struck fire.

"What signal?" she asked with a menacing ring in her voice. "Quick!"

"Cock-o'-the-pines!... It didn't mean nothin'," gasped the man; ... "It was jest private—between fishin' friends——"

"Go on!"

"Yes'm.... If I heard a cock-o'-the-pines squeal I was to squeal back, an' then he was to holler—jest friendly—'Hallo-oo! How's fishin'?' That's all, ma'am——"

"And you were to cross?"

"Yes'm—jest friendly like. Him an' me was fond o' fishin'——"

"I see. Sit down and don't move. Nobody is going to hurt you."

She went to the door, leisurely uncocking her revolver and pushing it through her belt.

"Oh, Connor," she called carelessly, "please mount my friend Mr. Snuyder on my horse, take him across the ford, and detain him as my guest at headquarters until I return. Wait a second; I'm going to keep my saddlebags with me."

And a few minutes later, as the troopers rode away in the mist with their prisoner, her gentle voice followed them:

"Don't be rough with him, Connor. Say to the colonel that there is no harm in him at all, but keep him in sight until I return; and don't let him go fishing!"

* * * * *

She began housekeeping at sunrise by taking a daring bath in the stream, then, dressing, she made careful inventory of the contents of the house and a cautious survey of the immediate environment.

The premises, so unexpectedly and unwillingly abandoned by its late obese tenant, harbored, besides herself, only one living creature—a fat kitten.

The ferry house stood above the dangerous south bank of the river in a grove of oaks, surrounded for miles by open country.

A flight of rickety, wooden stairs pitched downward from the edge of the grassy bank to a wharf at the water's edge—the mere skeleton of a wharf now, outlined only by decaying stringpieces. But here the patched-up punt was moored; and above it, nailed to a dead tree, the sign with its huge lettering still remained:

RED FERRY HOLLER TWICE

sufficiently distinct to be deciphered from the opposite shore. Sooner or later the fugitive would have to come to the river. Probably the cavalry would catch him at one of the fords, or some rifleman might shoot him swimming. But, if he did not know the fords, and could not swim, there was only one ferry for him; east, west, and north he had long since been walled in. The chances were that some night a cock-o'-the-pines would squeal from the woods across the river, and then she knew what to do.

During those broiling days of waiting she had leisure enough. Seated outside her shanty, in the shade of the trees, where she was able to keep watch both ways—south for her own safety's sake, north for the doomed man—she occupied herself with mending stockings and underwear, raising her eyes at intervals to sweep the landscape.

Nobody came into that heated desolation; neither voice nor gunshot echoed far or near. Day after day the foliage of the trees spread motionless under cloudless skies; day after day the oily river slipped between red mud banks in heated silence. In sky, on earth, nothing stirred except, at intervals, some buzzard turning, high in the blinding blue; below, all was deathly motionless, save when a clotted cake of red clay let go, sliding greasily into the current. At dawn the sun struck the half-stunned world insensible once more; no birds stirred even at sunset; all the little creatures of the field seemed dead; her kitten panted in its slumbers.

Every night the river fog shrouded the land, wetting the parched leaves; dew drummed on the rotting porch like the steady patter of picket-firing; the widow bird's distracted mourning filled the silence; the kitten crept to its food, ate indifferently, then, settling on the Messenger's knees, stared, round-eyed, at the dark. But always at dawn the sun burned off the mist, rising in stupefying splendor; the oily river glided on; not a leaf moved, not a creature. And the kitten slept on the porch, heedless of inviting grass stems whisked for her and the ball of silk rolled past her in temptation.

Half lying there, propped against a tree trunk in the heated shade, cotton bodice open, sleeves rolled to the shoulders, the Special Messenger mended her linen with languid fingers. Perspiration powdered her silky skin from brow to breast, from finger to elbow, shimmering like dew when she moved. Her dark hair fell, unbound; glossy tendrils of it curled on her shoulders, framing a face in which nothing as yet had extinguished the soft loveliness of youth.

At times she talked to the kitten under her breath; sometimes hummed an old song. Memories kept her busy, too, at moments quenching the brightness of her eyes, at moments twitching the edges of her vivid lips till the dreamy smile transfigured her.

But always quietly alert, her eyes scanned land and river, the bank opposite, the open fields behind her. Once, certain of a second's safety, she relaxed with a sigh, stretching out full length on the grass; and, under the edge of her cotton skirt, the metal of a revolver glimmered for an instant, strapped in its holster below her right knee.

The evening of the fourth day was cooler; the kitten hoisted its tail for the first time in their acquaintance, and betrayed a feeble interest in the flight of a white dusk-moth that came hovering around the porch vines.

"Pussy," said the Messenger, "there's bacon in that well pit; I am going to make a fire and fry some."

The kitten mewed faintly.

"I thought you'd approve, dear. Cold food is bad in hot weather; and we'll fry a little cornmeal, too. Shall we?"

The kitten on its small, uncertain legs followed her into one of the only two rooms. The fat tenant of the hovel had left some lightwood and kindling, and pots and pans necessary for such an existence as he led on earth.

The Messenger twisted up her hair and pinned it; then culinary rites began, the kitten breaking into a thin purring when an odor of bacon filled the air.

"Poor little thing!" murmured the Messenger, going to the door for a brief cautionary survey. And, coming back, she lifted the fry pan and helped the kitten first.

They were still eating when the sun set and the sudden Southern darkness fell over woods and fields and river. A splinter of lightwood flared aromatically in an old tin candlestick; by its smoky, wavering radiance she heated some well water, cleaned the tin plates, scoured pan and kettle, and set them in their humble places again.

Then, cleansing her hands daintily, she dried them, and picked up her sewing.

For her, night was the danger time; she could not avoid, by flight across the river, the approach of any enemy from the south; and for an enemy to discover her sitting there in darkness, with lightwood in the house, was to invite suspicion. Yet her only hope, if surprised, was to play her part as keeper of Red Ferry.

So she sat mending, sensitive ears on the alert, breathing quietly in the refreshing coolness that at last had come after so many nights of dreadful heat.

The kitten, too, enjoyed it, patting with tentative velvet paw the skein of silk dangling near the floor.

But it was a very little kitten, and a very lonely one, and presently it asked, plaintively, to be taken up. So the Messenger lifted the mite of fluffy fur and installed it among the linen on the table, where it went to sleep purring.

Outside the open door the dew drummed loudly; moths came in clouds, hovering like snowflakes about the doorway; somewhere in the woods a tiger owl yelped.

About midnight, lying on her sack of husks, close to the borderland of sleep, far away in the darkness she heard a shot.

In one bound she was at the door, buttoning her waist, and listening. And still listening, she lighted a pine splinter, raised her cotton skirt, and adjusted the revolver, strapping the holster tighter above and below her right knee.

The pulsing seconds passed; far above the northern river bank a light sparkled through the haze, then swung aloft; and she drew paper and pencil from her pocket, and wrote down what the torch was saying:

"Shot fired at Muddy Ford. Look out along the river."

And even as the red spark went out in the darkness a lonely birdcall floated across the river—the strange squealing plaint of the great cock-o'-the-pines. She answered, imitating it perfectly. Then a far voice called:

"Hallo-o-o! How's fishin'?"

She picked up her pine candle, hurried out to the bank and crept cautiously down the crazy, wooden stairs. Setting her torch in the iron cage at the bow, she cast off the painter and, standing erect, swung the long pole. Out into obscurity shot the punt, deeper and deeper plunged the pole. She headed up river to allow for the current; the cool breeze blew her hair and bathed her bared throat and arms deliciously; crimson torchlight flickered crisscross on the smooth water ahead.

Every muscle in her body was in play now; the heavy pole slanted, rose and plunged; the water came clip! slap! clap! slap! against the square bows, dusting her with spray.

On, on, tossing and pitching as the boat hit the swift, deep, center current; then the pole struck shallower depths, and after a while her torch reddened foliage hanging over the northern river bank.

She drove her pole into the clay as the punt's bow grated; a Federal cavalryman—a mere lad—muddy to the knees, brier-torn, and ghastly pale, waded out through the shallows, revolver in hand, clambered aboard, and struck the torch into the water.

"Take me over," he gasped. "Hurry, for God's sake! I tell you——"

"Was it you who called?"

"Yes. Snuyder sent you, didn't he? Don't stand there talking——"

With a nervous stroke she drove the punt far out into the darkness, then fell into a measured, swinging motion, standing nearer the stern than the bow. There was no sound now but the lapping of water and the man's thick breathing; she strove to pierce the darkness between them, but she could see only a lumpish shadow in the bow where he crouched.

"I reckon you're Roy Allen," she began, but he cut her short:

"Damn it! What's that to you?"

"Nothing. Only Snuyder's gone."

"When?"

"Some days ago, leaving me to ferry folk over.... He told me how to answer you when you called like a cock-o'-the-pines."

"Did he?" The voice was subdued and sullen.

For a while he remained motionless, then, in the dull light of the fog-shrouded stars she saw him face her, and caught the faint sparkle of his weapon resting on his knees, covering her.

"It seems to me," he said fiercely, "that you are asking a good many questions. Which side pays you?"

They were tossing now on the rapid little waves in the center of the river; she had all she could do to keep the punt steady and drive it toward the spot where, against the stars, the oaks lifted their clustered crests.

At the foot of the wooden stairs she tied her boat, and offered to relight the pine knot, but he would not have it and made her grope up the ascent before him.

Over the top of the bank she led him, under the trees, to her door, he close at her heels, revolver in hand. And there, on the sill, she faced him.

"What do you want here?" she asked; "supper?"

"Go into the house and strike a light," he said, and followed her in. And, as she turned from the blazing splinter, he caught her by the arm, feeling roughly for a concealed weapon. Face aflame, she struggled out of his clutch; and he was as red as she as they confronted one another, breathing heavily.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm—h-half-crazed, I think.... If you're what you look, God knows I meant you no insult.... But—but—their damned spies are everywhere. I've stood too much—I've been in hell for two weeks——"

He wiped his mouth with a trembling, raw hand, but his sunken eyes still glared and the pallor once more blanched his sunken face.

"I'll not touch you again," he said hoarsely; "I'm not a beast—not that kind. But I'm starving. Is there anything—anything, I tell you? I—I am not—very—strong."

She looked calmly into the ravaged, but still boyish features; saw him swing, reeling a little, on his heels as he steadied himself with one hand against the table.

"Sit down," she said in a low voice.

He sank into a chair, resting the hand which clutched the revolver on the table.

Without a word she went about the business of the moment, rekindled the ashes, filled the fry pan with mush and bacon. A little while afterwards she set the smoking food before him, and seated herself at the opposite side of the table.

The boy ate wolfishly with one hand; the other seemed to have grown fast to the butt of his heavy weapon. She could have bent and shot him under the table had she wished; she could have taken him with her bare hands.

But she only sat there, dark, sorrowful eyes on him, and in pity for his certain doom her under lip trembled at intervals so she could scarcely control it.

"Is there a horse to be had anywhere near here?" he asked, pausing to swallow what his sunken jaws had been working on.

"No; the soldiers have taken everything."

"I will pay—anything if you'll let me have something to ride."

She shook her head.

He went on eating; a slight color had come back into his face.

"I'm sorry I was rough with you," he said, not looking at her.

"Why were you?"

He raised his head wearily.

"I've been hunted so long that I guess it's turned my brain. Except for what you've been good enough to give me, I've had nothing inside me for days, except green leaves and bark and muddy water.... I suppose I can't see straight.... There's a woman they call the Special Messenger;—I thought they might have started her after me.... That shot at the ford seemed to craze me.... So I risked the ferry—seeing your light across—and not knowing whether Snuyder was still here or whether they had set a guard to catch me.... It was Red Ferry or starve; I'm too weak to swim; I waited too long."

And as the food and hot tea warmed him, his vitality returned in a maddened desire for speech after the weeks of terror and silence.

"I don't know who you are," he went on, "but I guess you're not fixed for shooting at me, as every living thing seems to have done for the last fortnight. Maybe you're in Yankee pay, maybe in Confederate; I can't help it. I suppose you'll tell I've been here after I'm gone.... But they'll never get me now!" he bragged, like a truant schoolboy recounting his misdemeanor to an awed companion.

"Who are you?" she asked very gently.

He looked at her defiantly.

"I'm Roy Allen," he said, "of Kay's Cavalry.... If you're fixing to tell the Union people you might as well tell them who fooled 'em!"

"What have you done?"

She inquired so innocently that a hint of shame for his suspicion and brutality toward her reddened his hollow cheeks.

"I'll tell you what I've done," he said. "I've taken to the woods, headed for Dixie, with a shirtful of headquarter papers. That's what I've done.... And perhaps you don't know what that means if they catch me. It means hanging."

"Hanging!" she faltered.

"Yes—if they get me." His voice quivered, but he added boastingly: "No fear of that! I'm too many for old Kay!"

"But—but why did you desert?"

"Why?" he repeated. Then his face turned red and he burst out violently: "I'll tell you why. I lived in New York, but I thought the South was in the right. Then they drafted me; and I tried to tell them it was an outrage, but they gave me the choice between Fort Lafayette and Kay's Cavalry.... And I took the Cavalry and waited.... I wouldn't have gone as far as to fight against the flag—if they had let me alone.... I only had my private opinion that the South was more in the right than we—the North—was.... I'm old enough to have an opinion about niggers, and I'm no coward either.... They drove me to this; I didn't want to kill people who were more in the right than we were.... But they made me enlist—and I couldn't stand it.... And now, if I've got to fight, I'll fight bullies and brutes who——"

He ended with a gesture—an angry, foolish boast, shaking his weapon toward the north. Then, hot, panting, sullenly sensible of his fatigue, he laid the pistol on the table and glowered at the floor.

She could have taken him, unarmed, at any moment, now.

"Soldier," she said gently, "listen to me."

He looked up with heavy-lidded eyes.

"I am trying to help you to safety," she said.

A hot flush of mortification mantled his face:

"Thank you.... I ought to have known; I—I am ashamed of what I said—what I did."

"You were only a little frightened; I am not angry."

"You understand, don't you?"

"A—little."

"You are Southern, then?" he said; and in spite of himself his heavy lids began to droop again.

"No; Northern," she replied.

His eyes flew wide open at that, and he straightened up in his chair.

"Are you afraid of me, Soldier?"

"No," he said, ashamed again. "But—you're going to tell on me after I am gone."

"No."

"Why not?" he demanded suspiciously.

She leaned both elbows on the table, and resting her chin on both palms, smiled at him.

"Because," she said, "you are going to tell on yourself, Roy."

"What!" he blurted out in angry astonishment.

"You are going to tell on yourself.... You are going back to your regiment.... It will be your own idea, too; it has been your own idea all the while—your secret desire every moment since you deserted——"

"Are you crazy!" he cried, aghast; "or do you think I am?"

"—ever since you deserted," she went on, dark eyes looking deep into his, "it has been your desire to go back.... Fear held you; rage hardened your heart; dread of death as your punishment; angry brooding on what you believed was a terrible injustice done you—all these drove you to panic.... Don't scowl at me: don't say what is on your lips to say. You are only a tired, frightened boy—scarcely eighteen, are you? And at eighteen no heart can really be a traitor."

"Traitor!" he repeated, losing all his angry color.

"It is a bad word, isn't it, Roy? Lying hidden and starving in the forest through the black nights you had to fight that word away from you—drive it out of your half-crazed senses—often—didn't you? Don't you think I know, my boy, what a dreadful future you faced, lying there through the stifling nights while they hunted you to hang you?

"I know, also, that what you did you did in a moment of insane rage. I know that the moment it was done you would, in your secret soul, have given the world to have undone it."

"No!" he cried. "I was right!"

She rose, walked to the door, and seated herself on the sill, looking up at the stars.

For an hour she sat there, silent. Behind her, leaning heavily on the table, he crouched, hot eyes wide, pulse heavy in throat and body. And at last, without turning, she called to him—three times, very gently, speaking his name; and at the third call he rose and came stumbling toward her.

"Sit here."

He sank down beside her on the sill.

"Are you very tired?"

"Yes."

She placed one arm around him, drawing his hot head down on her shoulder.

"How foolish you have been," she whispered. "But, of course, your mother must not know it.... There is no reason to tell her—ever.... Because you went quite mad for a little while—and nobody is blamed for mental sickness.... How bright the stars are.... What a heavenly coolness after that dreadful work.... How feverish you are! I think that your regiment believes you roamed away while suffering from sunstroke.... Their Colonel is a good friend of mine. Tell him you're sorry."

His head lay heavily on her shoulder; she laid a fresh hand over his eyes.

"If the South is right, if we of the North are right, God knows better than you or I, Roy.... And if you are so bewildered that you have no deep conviction either way I think you may trust Him who set you among Kay's Cavalry.... God never betrayed a human soul in honest doubt."

"It—it was the flag!—that was the hardest to get over—" he began, and choked, smothering the dry sob against her breast.

"I know, dear.... The old flag means so much—it means all that our fathers have been, all that we ought to be for the world's sake. Anger, private resentment, bitterness under tyranny—these are little things; for, after all, the flag still stands for what we ought to be—you and I and those who misuse us, wittingly or otherwise.... Where are the papers you took?"

He pressed his feverish face closer to her shoulder and fumbled at the buttons of his jacket.

"Here?" she asked softly, aiding him with deft fingers; and in a moment she had secured them.

For a while she held him there, cradling him; and his dry, burning face seemed to scorch her shoulder.

Dawn was in the sky when she unclosed her eyes—a cool, gray dawn, hinting of rain.

She looked down at the boy. His head lay across her lap; he slept, motionless as the dead.

The sun rose, a pale spot on the gray horizon.

"Come," she said gently. And again, "Come; I want you to take me across the ferry."

He rose and stood swaying on his feet, rubbing both eyes with briar-torn fists.

"You will take me, won't you, Roy?"

"Where?"

"Back to your regiment."

"Yes—I'll take you."

For a few moments she was busy gathering up her spools and linen.

"You carry my saddlebags," she said, "and I'll take the kitten. Isn't it cunning, Roy? Do look at the poor little thing! We can't leave it here."

Following, laden with her saddlebags, he stammered:

"Do—d-do you think they'll shoot me?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Be careful of the ferry steps; they are dreadfully shaky."

She began the descent, clasping the kitten in both arms; the boy followed. Seated in the punt, they stowed away the saddlebags and the kitten, then he picked up the pole, looked at her, hesitated. She waited.

"I guess the old man will have me shot.... But—I am going back," he said, as though to himself.

She watched him; he looked up.

"You're right, ma'am. I must have been crazy. Everybody reads about traitors—in school.... Nobody ever forgets their names.... I don't want my name in school books."

"Like Benedict Arnold's," she said; and he quivered from head to foot.

"Oh, cricky!" he burst out, horrified; "how close I came to it! Have you got those papers safe?"

"Yes, Roy."

"Then I'll go. I don't care what they do to me."

As he rose with the pole, far away in the woods across the river a cavalry band began to play. Faint and clear the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner rose from among the trees and floated over the water; the boy stood spellbound, mouth open; then, as the far music died away, he sank back into the boat, deathly pale.

"I—I ought to be hung!" he whispered.

The Messenger picked up the fallen pole, set it, and drove the punt out into the river. Behind her, huddled in the stern, the prodigal wept, uncomforted, head buried in his shaking arms; and the kitten, being afraid, left the shelter of the thwarts and crept up on his knees, sitting there and looking out at the unstable world of water in round-eyed apprehension.

As the punt grated on the northern shore the Messenger drove her pole into the mud, upright, and leaned on it.

"Roy," she said, looking back over her shoulder.

The boy rubbed his wet eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and got up.

"Are you afraid?"

"Not now."

"That is well.... You'll be punished.... Not severely.... For you came back of your own accord—repentant.... Tell me, were you really afraid that the Special Messenger might catch you?"

"Yes, I was," he said simply. "That's why I acted so rough with you.... I didn't know; they say any woman you see may be the Special Messenger.... So I took no chances.... Who are you, anyway?"

"Only a friend of yours," she said, smiling. "Please pick up my kitten. Thank you.... And some day, when you've been very, very good, I'll ask Colonel Kay to let you take me fishing."

And she stepped lightly ashore; the boy followed, holding the kitten under one arm and drying his grimy eyes on his sleeve.



VI

AN AIR-LINE

"As for me," continued Colonel Gay bitterly, "I'm driven almost frantic by this conspiracy. Whenever a regiment arrives or leaves, whenever a train stirs—yes, by Heaven, every time a locomotive toots or a mule brays or a chicken has the pip—somebody informs the Johnnies, and every detail is known to them within a few hours!"

The Special Messenger seated herself on the edge of the camp table. "I suppose they are very disagreeable to you about it at headquarters."

"Yes, they are—but how can I help it? Somehow or other, whatever is done or said or even thought in this devilish supply camp is immediately reported to Jeb Stuart; every movement of trains and troops leaks out; he'll know to-night what I ate for breakfast this morning—I'll bet on that. And, Messenger, let me tell you something. Joking aside, this thing is worrying me sick. Can you help me?"

"I'll try," she said. "Headquarters sent me. They're very anxious up there about the railroad."

"I can't help it!" cried the distracted officer. "On Thursday I had to concentrate the line-patrol to drive Maxon's bushwhackers out of Laurel Siding; and look what Stuart did to me. No sooner were we off than he struck the unguarded section and tore up two miles of track! What am I to do?"

The Special Messenger shook her pretty head in sympathy.

"There's a leak somewhere," insisted the angry officer; "it smells to Heaven, but I can't locate it. Somewhere there's a direct, intelligent and sinister underground communication between Osage Court House and Jeb Stuart at Sandy River—or wherever he is. And what I want you to do is to locate that leak and plug it."

"Of course," murmured the Special Messenger, gently tapping her riding skirt with her whip.

"Because," continued the Colonel, "headquarters is stripping this depot of troops. The Bucktails go to-day; Casson's New York brigade and Darrel's cavalry left yesterday. What remains is a mighty small garrison for a big supply depot—eleven hundred effectives, and they may take some of them at any moment. You see the danger?"

"Yes, I do."

"I've protested; I've pointed out the risk we run; I sent my third messenger to headquarters this afternoon. Of course, they don't intend to leave this depot unguarded—probably they'll send the Vermont troops from the North this week—but between the departure of Casson's column and the theoretical arrival of reenforcements from Preston, we'd be in a bad way if Stuart should raid us in force. And with this irritating and constant leaking out of information I'm horribly afraid he'll strike us as soon as the Bucktails entrain."

"Why don't you hold the Pennsylvania infantry until we can find out where the trouble lies?" asked the girl, raising her dark eyes to the nervous young Colonel.

"I haven't the authority; I've asked for it twice. Orders stand; the Bucktails are going, and I'm worried to death." He shoved his empty pipe into his mouth and bit viciously at the stem.

"Then," she said, "if I'm to do anything I'd better hurry, hadn't I?"

The young officer's face grew grimmer. "Certainly; but I've been a month at it and I'm no wiser. Of course I know you are very celebrated, ma'am; but, really, do you think it likely that you can pick out this hidden mischief-maker before he sends word to Stuart to-night of our deplorable condition?"

"How long have I?"

"About a day."

"When do the Bucktails go?"

"At nine to-night."

"Who knows it?"

"Who doesn't? I can't move a regiment and its baggage in a day, can I? I've given them twenty-four hours to break camp and entrain."

"Does the train master know which troops are going?"

"He has orders to hold three trains, steam up, night and day."

"I see," she murmured, strapping her soft riding hat more securely to her hair with the elastic band. Her eyes had been wandering restlessly around the tent as though searching for something which she could not find.

"Have you a good map of the district?" she asked.

He went to his military chest, opened it, and produced a map. For a while, both hands on the table, she leaned above the map studying the environment.

"And Stuart? You say he's roaming around somewhere in touch with Sandy River?" she asked, pointing with a pencil to that metropolis on the map.

"The Lord knows where he is!" muttered the Colonel. "He may be a hundred miles south now, and in my back yard to-morrow by breakfast time. But when he's watching us he's usually near Sandy River."

"I see. And these"—drawing her pencil in a wavering line—"are your outposts? I mean those pickets nearest Sandy River."

"They are. Those are rifle pits."

"A grand guard patrols this line?" she asked, rising to her feet.

"Yes; a company of cavalry and a field gun."

"Do you issue passes?"

"Not to the inhabitants."

"Have any people—civilians—asked for passes?"

"I had two applications; one from a Miss Carryl, who lives about a mile beyond here on the Sandy River Road; another from an old farmer, John Deal, who has a fruit and truck farm half a mile outside our lines. He wanted to come in with his produce and I let him for a while. But that leakage worried me, so I stopped him."

"And this Miss Carryl—did she want to go out?"

"She owns the Deal farm. Yes, she wanted to drive over every day; and I let her until, as I say, I felt obliged to stop the whole business—not permit anybody to go out or come in except our own troops."

"And still the leakage continues?"

"It certainly does," he said dryly.

The Special Messenger seated herself on one end of the military chest and gazed absently at space. Her booted foot swung gently at intervals.

"So this Miss Carryl owns John Deal's farm," she mused aloud.

"They run it on shares, I believe."

"Oh! Was she angry when you shut out her tenant, John Deal, and shut her inside the lines?"

"No; she seemed a little surprised—said it was inconvenient—wanted permission to write him."

"You gave it?"

"Yes. I intimated it would save time if she left her letters to him unsealed. She seemed quite willing."

"You read them all, of course, before delivering them?"

"Of course. There was nothing in them except instructions about plowing, fruit picking, and packing, and various bucolic matters."

"Oh! Nothing to be read between the lines? No cipher? No invisible ink? No tricks of any sort?"

"Not one. I had a detective here. He said there was absolutely no harm in the letters, in Miss Carryl, or in John Deal. I have all the letters if you care to look at them; I always keep the originals and allow only copies to be sent to old man Deal."

"Let me see those letters," suggested the Messenger.

The Colonel, who had been sitting on the camp table, got off wearily, rummaged in a dispatch box, and produced three letters, all unsealed.

Two were directed in a delicately flowing, feminine hand to John Deal, Waycross Orchard. The Messenger unfolded the first and read:

Dear Mr. Deal:

Colonel Gay has thought it necessary, for military reasons, to revoke my pass; and I shall, therefore, be obliged hereafter to communicate with you by letter only.

I wish, if there are negroes enough remaining in the quarters, that you would start immediately a seedling orchard of white Rare-ripe peaches from my orchard here. I have permission to send the pits to you by the military post-rider who passes my house. I will send you twenty every day as my peaches ripen. Please prepare for planting. I hope your rheumatism is better.

Yours very truly, Evelyn Carryl.

The Messenger's dark eyes lifted dreamily to the Colonel:

"You gave her permission to send the pits by your post-rider?"

"Yes," he said, smiling; "but I always look over them myself. You know the wedding gown of the fairy princess was hidden in a grape seed."

"You are quite sure about the pits?"

"Perfectly."

"Oh! When does the next batch of twenty go?"

"In about an hour. Miss Carryl puts them in a bag and gives them to my messenger who brings them to me. Then I inspect every pit, tie up the bag, seal it, and give it to my messenger. When he takes the mail to the outposts he rides on for half a mile and leaves the sealed bag at Deal's farm."

"Does your messenger know what is in the bag?"

"No, he doesn't."

She nodded, amused, saying carelessly:

"Of course you trust your post-rider?"

"Absolutely."

The Special Messenger swung her foot absently to and fro, and presently opened another letter:

Dear Mr. Deal:

I am sending you twenty more peach pits for planting. What you write me about the bees is satisfactory. I have received the bees you sent. There is no reason why you should not make the exchange with Mr. Enderly, as it will benefit our hives as well as Mr. Enderly's to cross his Golden Indias with my Blacks.

The Messenger studied the letter thoughtfully; askance, the officer watched the delicate play of expression on her absorbed young face, perhaps a trifle incredulous that so distractingly pretty a woman could be quite as intelligent as people believed.

She looked up at him quietly.

"So you gave Deal permission to send some bees to Miss Carryl and write her a letter?"

"Once. I had the letter brought to me and I sent her a copy. Here it is—the original."

He produced Deal's letter from the dispatch pouch, and the Messenger read:

Miss Evelyn Carryl, Osage Court House.

Respected Miss:

I send you the bees. I seen Mr. Enderly at Sandy River he says he is very wishful for to swap bees to cross the breed I says it shorely can be done if you say so I got the pits and am studyin' how to plant. The fruit is a rottin' can't the Yankees at Osage buy some truck nohow off'n me? So no more with respect from

John Deal Supt.

"That seems rather harmless, doesn't it?" asked the Colonel wearily.

"I don't—know. I think I'll take a look at John Deal's beehives."

"His beehives!"

"Yes."

"What for?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know—exactly. I was always fond of bees. They're so useful"—she looked up artlessly—"so clever—quite wonderful, Colonel. Have you ever read anything about bees—how they live and conduct themselves?"

The Colonel eyed her narrowly; she laughed, sprang up from the military chest, and handed back his letters.

"You have already formed your theory?" he inquired with a faintly patronizing air, under which keen disappointment betrayed itself where the grim, drooping mouth tightened.

"Yes, I have. There's a link missing, but—I may find that before night. You can give me—how long?"

"The Bucktails leave at nine. See here, Messenger! With all the civility and respect due you, I——"

"You are bitterly disappointed in me," she finished coolly. "I don't blame you, Colonel Gay."

He was abashed at that, but unconvinced.

"Why do you suspect this Miss Carryl and this man, Deal, when I've showed you how impossible it is that they could send out information?"

"Somehow," she said quietly, "they do send it—if they are the only two people who have had passes, and who now are permitted to correspond."

"But you saw the letters——"

"So did you, Colonel."

"I did!" he said emphatically; "and there's nothing dangerous in them. As for the peach pits——"

"Oh, I'll take your word for them, too," she said, laughing. "When is your post-rider due?"

"In a few minutes, now."

She began to pace backward and forward, the smile still lightly etched on her lips. The officer watched her; puckers of disappointed anxiety creased his forehead; he bit at his pipestem, and thought of the Bucktails. Certainly Stuart would hear of their going; surely before the northern reenforcements arrived the gray riders would come thundering into Osage Court House. Fire, pillage, countless stores wasted, trains destroyed, miles of railroads rendered useless. What, in Heaven's name, could his superiors be thinking of, to run such risk with one of the bases of supplies? Somewhere—somewhere, not far from corps headquarters, sat incompetency enthroned—gross negligence—under a pair of starred shoulder straps. And, musing bitterly, he thought he knew to whom those shoulder straps belonged.

"The damn fool!" he muttered, biting at his pipe.

"Colonel," said the Messenger cheerily, "I am going to take the mail to the outposts to-day."

"As you like," he said, without interest.

"I want, also, a pass for Miss Carryl."

"To pass our lines?"

"To pass out. She will not care to return."

"Certainly," he said with amiable curiosity.

He scratched off the order and she took it.

"Ask for anything you desire," he said, smiling.

"Then may I have this tent to myself for a little while? And would you be kind enough to send for my saddlebags and my own horse."

The Colonel went to the tent flap, spoke to the trooper on guard. When he came back he said that it was beginning to rain.

"Hard?" she asked, troubled.

"No; just a fine, warm drizzle. It won't last."

"All the better!" she cried, brightening; and it seemed to the young officer as though the sun had gleamed for an instant on the tent wall. But it was only the radiant charm of her, transfiguring, with its youthful brilliancy, the dull light in the tent; and, presently, the Colonel went away, leaving her very busy with her saddlebags.

There was a cavalry trooper's uniform in one bag; she undressed hurriedly and put it on. Over this she threw a long, blue army cloak, turned up the collar, and, twisting her hair tightly around her head, pulled over it the gray, slouch campaign hat, with its crossed sabres of gilt and its yellow braid.

It was a boyish-looking rider who mounted at the Colonel's tent and went cantering away through the warm, misty rain, mail pouch and sabre flopping.

There was no need for her to inquire the way. She knew Waycross, the Carryl home, and John Deal's farm as well as she knew her own home in Sandy River.

The drizzle had laid the dust and washed clean the roadside grass and bushes; birds called expectantly from fence and thorny thicket, as the sun whitened through the mist above; butterflies, clinging to dewy sprays, opened their brilliant wings in anticipation; swallows and martins were already soaring upward again; a clean, sweet, fragrant vapor rose from earth and shrub.

Ahead of her, back from the road, at the end of its private avenue of splendid oaks, an old house glimmered through the trees; and the Special Messenger's eyes were fixed on it steadily as she rode.

Pillar, portico, and porch glistened white amid the leaves; Cherokee roses covered the gallery lattice; an old negro was pretending to mow the unkempt lawn with a sickle, but whenever the wet grass stuck to the blade he sat down to examine the landscape and shake his aged head at the futility of all things mundane. The clatter of the Special Messenger's horse aroused him; at the same instant a graceful woman, dressed in black, came to the edge of the porch and stood there as though waiting.

The big gateway was open; under arched branches the Messenger galloped down the long drive and drew bridle, touching the brim of her slouch hat. And the Southern woman looked into the Messenger's eyes without recognition.

Miss Carryl was fair, yellow-haired and blue-eyed—blonder for the dull contrast of the mourning she wore—and her voice was as colorless as her skin when she bade the trooper good afternoon.

All she could see of this cloaked cavalryman was two dark, youthful eyes above the upturned collar of the cloak, shadowed, too, by the wet hat brim, drooping under gilded crossed sabres.

"You are not the usual mail-carrier?" she asked languidly.

"No, ma'am"—in a nasal voice.

"Colonel Gay sent you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Miss Carryl turned, lifted a small salt sack, and offered it to the Messenger, who leaned wide from her saddle and took it in one hand.

"You are to take this bag to the Deal farm. Colonel Gay has told you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you. And there is no letter to-day. Will you have a few peaches to eat on the way? I always give the mail-carrier some of my peaches to eat."

Miss Carryl lifted a big, blue china bowl full of superb, white, rare-ripe peaches, and, coming to the veranda's edge, motioned the Messenger to open the saddlebags. Into it she poured a number of peaches.

"They are perfectly ripe," she said; "I hope you will like them."

"Thank'y, ma'am."

"And, Soldier," she turned to add with careless grace, "if you would be kind enough to drop the pits back into the saddlebag and give them to Mr. Deal he would be glad of them for planting."

"Yes'm; I will——"

"How many peaches did I give you? Have you enough?"

"Plenty, ma'am; you gave me seven, ma'am."

"Seven? Take two more—I insist—that makes nine, I think. Good day; and thank you."

But the Messenger did not hear; there was something far more interesting to occupy her mind—a row of straw-thatched beehives under the fruit trees at the eastern end of the house.

From moment to moment, homing or outgoing bees sped like bullets across her line of vision; the hives were busy now that a gleam of pale sunshine lay across the grass. One bee, leaving the hive, came humming around the Cherokee roses. The Messenger saw the little insect alight and begin to scramble about, plundering the pollen-powdered blossom. The bee was a yellow one.

Suddenly the Messenger gathered bridle and touched her hat; and away she spurred, putting her horse to a dead run.

Passing the inner lines, she halted to give and receive the password, then tossed a bunch of letters to the corporal, and spurred forward. Halted by the outer pickets, she exchanged amenities again, rid herself of the remainder of the mail, and rode forward, loosening the revolver in her holster. Then she ate her first peach.

It was delicious—a delicate, dripping, snow-white pulp, stained with pink where the pit rested. There was nothing suspicious about that pit, or any of the others when she broke the fragrant fruit in halves and carefully investigated. Then she tore off the seal and opened the bag and examined each of the twenty dry pits within. Not one had been tampered with.

Her horse had been walking along the moist, fragrant road; a few moments later she passed the last cavalry picket, and at the same moment she caught sight of John Deal's farm.

The house was neat and white and small; orchards stretched in every direction; a few beehives stood under the fruit trees near a well.

A big, good-humored looking man came out into the path as the Messenger drew bridle, greeted the horse with a caress and its rider with a pleasant salute.

"I'm very much obliged to you," he said, taking the sack of pits. "I reckon we're bound to have more fine weather. What's this—some peach pits from Miss Carryl?"

"Nine," nodded the Messenger.

"Nine! I'll have nine fine young trees this time three years, I reckon. Thank you, suh. How's things over to the Co't House?"

"Troops arriving all the while," said the Messenger carelessly.

"Comin' in?"

"Lots."

"Sho! I heard they was sendin' 'em East."

"Oh, some. We've got to have elbow-room. Can't pack two army corps into Osage Court House."

"Two a'my co'ps, suh?"

"More or less."

John Deal balanced the sack in the palm of one work-worn hand and looked hard at the Messenger. He could see only her eyes.



"Reckon you ain't the same trooper as come yesterday."

"No."

"What might be yoh regiment?"

The Messenger was looking hard at the beehives. The door of one of the hives, a new one, was shut.

"What regiment did you say, suh?" repeated Deal, showing his teeth in a friendly grin; and suddenly froze rigid as he found himself inspecting the round, smoky muzzle of a six-shooter.

"Turn around," said the Special Messenger. Her voice was even and passionless.

John Deal turned.

"Cross your hands behind your back. Quickly, please! Now back up to this horse. Closer!"

There was a glimmer, a click; and the man stood handcuffed.

"Sit down on the grass with your back against that tree. Make yourself comfortable."

Deal squatted awkwardly, settled, and turned a pallid face to the Messenger.

"What'n hell's this mean?" he demanded.

"Don't move and don't shout," said the Messenger. "If you do I'll have to gag you. I'm only going over there to take a look at your bees."

The pallor on the man's face was dreadful, but he continued to stare at the Messenger coolly enough.

"It's a damned outrage!" he began thickly. "I had a pass from your Colonel——"

"If you don't keep quiet I'll have to tie up your face," observed the Messenger, dismounting and flinging aside her cloak.

Then, as she walked toward the little row of beehives, carrying only her riding whip, the farmer's eyes grew round and a dull flush empurpled his face and neck.

"By God!" he gasped; "it's her!" and said not another word.

She advanced cautiously toward the hives; very carefully, with the butt of her whip, she closed the sliding door over every exit, then seated herself in the grass within arm's length of the hives and, crossing her spurred boots, leaned forward, expectant, motionless.

A bee arrived, plunder-laden, dropped on the sill and began to walk toward the closed entrance of his hive. Finding it blocked, the insect buzzed angrily. Another bee whizzed by her and lit on the sill of another hive; another came, another, and another.

Very gingerly, as each insect alighted, she raised the sliding door and let it enter. Deal watched her, fascinated.

An hour passed; she had admitted hundreds of bees, always closing the door behind each new arrival. Then something darted through the range of her vision and alighted, buzzing awkwardly on the sill of a hive—an ordinary, yellow-brown honey bee, yet differing from the others in that its thighs seemed to be snow-white.

Quick as a flash the Messenger leaned forward and caught the insect in her gloved fingers, holding it by the wings flat over the back.

Its abdomen dilated and twisted, and the tiny sting was thrust out, vainly searching the enemy; but the Messenger, drawing a pin from her jacket, deftly released the two white encumbrances from the insect's thighs—two thin cylinders of finest tissue paper, and flung the angry insect high into the air. It circled, returned to the hive, and she let it in.

There was a groan from the manacled man under the trees; she gave him a rapid glance, shook her head in warning, and, leaning forward, deftly lifted a second white-thighed bee from the hive over which it was scrambling in a bewildered sort of way.

A third, fourth, and fifth bee arrived in quick succession; she robbed them all of their tissue-paper cylinders. Then for a while no more arrived, and she wondered whether her guess had been correct, that the nine peaches and wet pits meant to John Deal that nine bees were to be expected—eager home-comers, which he had sent to his mistress and which, as she required their services, she released, certain that they would find their old hives on John Deal's farm and carry to him the messages she sent.

And they came at last—the sixth, seventh—then after a long interval the eighth—and, finally, the ninth bee whizzed up to the hive and fell, scrambling, its movements embarrassed by the tiny, tissue cylinders.

The Messenger waited another hour; there were no more messengers among the bees that arrived.

Then she opened every hive door, rose, walked over to the closed hive that stood apart and opened the door of that.

A black honeybee crawled out, rose into the air, and started due south; another followed, then three, then a dozen; and then the hive vomited a swarm of black bees which sped southward.

Sandy River lay due south; also, the home-hive from which they had been taken and confined as prisoners; also, a certain famous officer lingered at Sandy River—one, General J. E. B. Stuart, very much interested in the beehives belonging to a friend of his, a Mr. Enderly.

When she had relieved each messenger-bee of its tissue-paper dispatch, she had taken the precaution to number each tiny cylinder, in order of its arrival, from one to nine. Now she counted them, looked over each message, laid them carefully away between the leaves of a pocket notebook, slipped it into the breast of her jacket, and, rising, walked over to John Deal.

"Here is the key to those handcuffs," she said, hanging it around his neck by the bit of cord on which it was dangling. "Somebody at Sandy River will unlock them for you. But it would be better, Mr. Deal, if you remained outside our lines until this war is ended. I don't blame you—I'm sorry for you—and for your mistress."

She set toe to stirrup, mounted easily, fastened her cloak around her.

"I'm really sorry," she said. "I hope nobody will injure your pretty farm. Good-by."

Miss Carryl was standing at the end of the beautiful, oak-shaded avenue when the Messenger, arriving at full speed, drew bridle and whirled her horse.

Looking straight into the pretty Southern woman's eyes, she said gravely:

"Miss Carryl, your bees have double stings. I am very sorry for you—very, very sorry. I hope your property will he respected while you are at Sandy River."

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Carryl. Over her pale features a painful tremor played.

"You know what I mean. And I am afraid you had better go at once. John Deal is already on his way."

There was a long silence. Miss Carryl found her voice at length.

"Thank you," she said without a tremor. "Will I have any trouble in passing the Yankee lines?"

"Here is your passport. I had prepared it."

As the Messenger bent over from the saddle to deliver the pass, somehow her hat, with its crossed gilt sabres, fell off. She caught it in one hand; a bright blush mantled throat and face.

The Southern woman looked up at the girl in the saddle, so dramatically revealed for what she was under the superb accusation of her hair.

"You?"

"Yes—God help us both!"

The silence was terrible.

"It scarcely surprises me," murmured Miss Carryl with a steady smile. "I saw only your eyes before, but they seemed too beautiful for a boy's."

Then she bent her delicately-molded head and studied the passport. The Messenger, still blushing, drew her hat firmly over her forehead and fastened a loosened braid. Presently she took up her bridle.

"I will ask Colonel Gay's protection for Waycross House," she said in a low voice. "I am so dreadfully sorry that this has happened."

"You need not be; I have only tried to do for my people what you are doing for yours—but I should be glad of a guard for Waycross. His grave is in the orchard there." And with a quiet inclination of the head she turned away into the oak-bordered avenue, walking slowly toward the house which, in a few moments, she must leave forever.

In the late sunshine her bees flashed by, seeking the fragrant home-hives; long, ruddy bars of sunlight lay across grass and tree trunk; on the lawn the old servant still chopped at the unkempt grass, and the music of his sickle sounded pleasantly under the trees.

On these things the fair-haired Southern woman looked, and if her eye dimmed and her pale lip quivered there was nobody to see. And after a little while she went into the house, slowly, head held high, black skirt lifted, just clearing the threshold of her ancestors.

Then the Special Messenger, head hanging, wheeled her horse and rode slowly back to Osage Court House.

She passed the Colonel, who was dismounting just outside his tent, and saluted him without enthusiasm:

"The leak is stopped, sir. Miss Carryl is going to Sandy River; John Deal is on his way. They won't come back—and, Colonel, won't you give special orders that her house is not to be disturbed? She is an old school friend."

The Colonel stared at her incredulously.

"I'm afraid you still have your doubts about that leak, sir."

"Yes, I have."

She dismounted wearily; an orderly took her horse, and without a word she and the Colonel entered the tent.

"They used bees for messengers," she said; "that was the leak."

"Bees?"

"Honey bees, Colonel."

For a whole minute he was silent, then burst out:

"Good God! Bees! And if such a—an extraordinary performance were possible how did you guess it?"

"Oh," she said patiently, "I used them that way when I was a little girl. Bees, like pigeons, go back to their homes. Look, sir! Here, in order, are the dispatches, each traced in cipher on a tiny roll of tissue. They were tied to the bees' thighs."

[Transcriber's Note: in the following cyphers, subscripted numerals and special symbols are contained in curly brackets, like this: {3}]

And she spread them out in order under his amazed eyes; and this is what he saw when she pieced them together for him:

EIO{2}W{2} x I{8}W{3} {triangle} NI{7}W{3} x OII{6}I{5}W{3} x ENI{7}I{7}I{4}I{8}I{5}O{2} N x I{7}IE x I{4}O{2}I{2} x N x HI{5} x IO{2}E x N x O x E x WNW{3} x W x I{8}E{3}XHN {crescent} x L x I{3} O{2}XW{3}I{5}W{3}NW{2} x

I{4}I{2} x I{8}W{3}I{7}I{4}LI x NW{3}x I{5}O{2}HI x O{2}I{4}EI{3}W{3} x HNI{7}I{7} {circle+} W{2}

"That's all very well," he said, "but how about this hieroglyphic? Do you think anybody on earth is capable of reading such a thing?"

"Why not?"

"Can you?"

"All such ciphers are solved by the same method.... Yes, Colonel, I can read it very easily."

"Well, would you mind doing so?"

"Not in the slightest, sir. The key is extremely simple. I will show you." And she picked up pencil and paper and wrote:

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty

"Now," she said, "taking the second letter in each word, we can parallel that column thus:

N equals the letter A W equals the letter B H equals the letter C O equals the letter D I equals the letter E

"Then, in the word six we have the letter I again as the second letter, so we call it I{2}. And, continuing, we have:

I{2} equals the letter F E equals the letter G I{3} equals the letter H I{4} equals the letter I E{2} equals the letter J L equals the letter K W{2} equals the letter L H{2} equals the letter M O{2} equals the letter N I{5} equals the letter O I{6} equals the letter P E{3} equals the letter Q I{7} equals the letter R I{8} equals the letter S W{3} equals the letter T

"Now, using these letters for the symbols in the cipher:

EIO{2}W{2} x I{8}W{3} {triangle} NI{7}W{3} x OII{6}I{5}W{3} x ENI{7}I{7}I{4}I{8}I{5}O{2} N x I{7}IE x I{4}O{2}I{2} x N x HI{5} x IO{2}E x N x O x E x WNW{3} x W x I{8}E{3}XHN {crescent} x L x I{3} O{2}XW{3}I{5}W{3}NW{2} x

I{4}I{2} x I{8}W{3}I{7}I{4}LI x NW{3}x I{5}O{2}HI x O{2}I{4}EI{3}W{3} x HNI{7}I{7} {circle+} W{2}

"We translate it freely thus, and I'll underline only the words in the cipher:

Gen'l Stuart (Sandy River?)

(The present) Depot Garrison (of Osage Court House is) One Reg(iment) (of) Inf(antry) One Co(mpany of) Eng(ineers) One Four G(un) Bat(tery) Two Sq(uadrons) (of) Cav(alry) Eleven Hun(dred men) Total If (you) strike (strike) at once (and at) night!

(Signed) Carryl.

"Do you see, Colonel, how very simple it is, after all?"

The Colonel, red and astounded, hung over the paper, laboriously verifying the cipher and checking off each symbol with its alphabetical equivalent.

"What's that mark?" he demanded; "this symbol——"

"It stands for the letter U, sir."

"How do you know?"

The Messenger, seated sideways on the camp table, one small foot swinging, looked down and bit her lip.

"Must I tell you?"

"As you please. And I'll say now that your solving this intricate and devilish cipher is, to me, a more utterly amazing performance than the rebel use of bees as messengers."

She shook her head slowly.

"It need not amaze you.... I was born in Sandy River.... And in happier times—when my parents were living—I spent the school vacations there.... We had always kept bees.... There was—in those days—a boy. We were very young and—romantic. We exchanged vows—and bees—and messages in cipher.... I knew this cipher as soon as I saw it. I invented it—long ago—for him and me."

"W-well," stammered the bewildered Colonel, "I don't see how——"

"I do, sir. Our girl and boy romance was a summer dream. One day he dreamed truer. So did the beautiful Miss Carryl.... And the pretty game I invented for him he taught in turn to his fiancee.... Well, he died in The Valley.... And I have just given his fiancee her passport. It would be very kind of you to station a guard at the Carryl place for its protection. Would you mind giving the order, sir?... He is buried there."

The Colonel, hands clasped behind him, walked to the tent door.

"Yes," he said, "I'll give the order."

A few moments later the drums of the Bucktails began beating the assembly.



VII

THE PASS

Her map, which at headquarters was supposed to be reliable, had grossly misled her; the road bore east instead of north, dwindling, as she advanced, to a rocky path among the foothills. She had taken the wrong turn at the forks; there was nothing to direct her any farther—no landmarks except the general trend of the watercourse, and the dull cinders of sunset fading to ashes in the west.

It was impossible now to turn back; Carrick's flying column must be very close on her heels by this time—somewhere yonder in the dusk, paralleling her own course, with only a dark curtain of forest intervening.

So all that evening, and far into the starlit night, she struggled doggedly forward, leading her lamed horse over the mountain, dragging him through laurel thickets, tangles of azalea and rhododendron, thrashing across the swift mountain streams that tumbled out of starry, pine-clad heights, foaming athwart her trail with the rushing sound of forest winds.

For a while the clear radiance of the stars lighted the looming mountains; but when wastes of naked rock gave place to ragged woods, lakes and pits of darkness spread suddenly before her; every gully, every ravine brimmed level with treacherous shadows, masking the sheer fall of rock plunging downward into fathomless depths.

Again and again, as she skirted the unseen edges of destruction, chill winds from unsuspected deeps halted her; she dared not light the lantern, dared not halt, dared not even hesitate. And so, fighting down terror, she toiled on, dragging her disabled horse, until, just before dawn, the exhausted creature refused to stir another foot.

Desperate, breathless, trembling on the verge of exhaustion, with the last remnants of nervous strength she stripped saddle and bridle from the animal; then her nerves gave way and she buried her face against her horse's reeking, heaving shoulders.

"I've got to go on, dear," she whispered; "I'll try to come back to you.... See what a pretty stream this is," she added, half hysterically, "and such lots of fresh, sweet grass.... Oh, my little horse—my little horse! I'm so tired—so tired!"

The horse turned his gentle head, mumbling her shoulder with soft, dusty lips; she stifled a sob, lifted saddle, saddlebags, and bridle and carried them up the rocky bank of the stream to a little hollow. Here she dropped them, unstrapped her revolver and placed it with them, then drew from the saddlebags a homespun gown, sunbonnet, and a pair of coarse shoes, and laid them out on the moss.

Fatigue rendered her limbs unsteady; her fingers twitched as she fumbled with button and buckle, but at last spurred boots, stockings, jacket, and dusty riding skirt fell from her; undergarments dropped in a circle around her bare feet; she stepped out of them, paused to twist up her dark hair tightly, then, crossing the moss to the stream's edge, picked her way out among the boulders to the brimming rim of a pool.

In the exquisite shock of the water the blood whipped her skin; fatigue vanished through the crystal magic; shoulder-deep she waded, crimson-cheeked, then let herself drift, afloat, stretching out in ecstasy until every aching muscle thrilled with the delicious reaction.

Overhead, tree swallows darted through a sky of pink and saffron, pulsating with the promise of the sun; the tinted peak of a mountain, jaggedly mirrored in the unquiet pool, suddenly glowed crimson, and the reflections ran crisscross through the rocking water, lacing it with fiery needles.

She looked like some delicate dawn-sprite as she waded ashore—a slender, unreal shape in the rosy glow, while behind her, from the dim ravine, ghosts of the mountain mist floated, rising like a company of slim, white angels drifting to the sky.

All around her now the sweet, bewildered murmur of purple martins grew into sustained melody; thrush and mocking bird, thrasher and cardinal, sang from every leafy slope; and through the rushing music of bird and pouring waterfall the fairy drumming of the cock-o'-the-pines rang out in endless, elfin reveille.

While she was managing to dry herself and dress, her horse limped off into the grassy swale below to drink in the stream and feed among the tender grasses.

Before she drew on the homespun gown she tucked her linen map into an inner skirt pocket, flat against her right thigh; then, fastening on the shabby skirt, she rolled up her riding habit, laid it with lantern, revolver, saddle, bridle, boots, and bags, in the hollow and covered all over with heaps of fragrant dead leaves and branches. It was the best she could do, and the time was short.

Her horse raised his wise, gentle head, and looked across the stream at her as she hastened past, then limped stiffly toward her.

"Oh, I can't stand it if you hobble after me!" she wailed under her breath. "Dearest—dearest—I will surely come back to you. Good-by—good-by!"

On the crest of the ridge she cast one swift, tearful glance behind. The horse, evidently feeling better, was rolling in the grass, all four hoofs waving at the sky. And she laughed through the tears, and drew from her pockets a morsel of dry bread which she had saved from the saddlebags. This she nibbled as she walked, taking her bearings from the sun and the sweep of the southern mountain slopes; and listening, always listening, for the jingle and clank of the Confederate flying battery that was surely following along somewhere on that parallel road which she had missed, hidden from her view only by a curtain of forest, the width of which she had no time to investigate. Nor did she know for certain that she had outstripped the Confederate column in the race for the pass—a desperate race, although the men of that flying column, which was hastening to turn the pass into a pitfall for the North, had not the faintest suspicion that the famous Special Messenger was racing with them to forestall them, or even that their secret was no longer a secret.

In hot haste from the south hills she had come to warn Benton's division of the ambuscade preparing for it, riding by highway and byway, her heart in her mouth, taking every perilous chance. And now, at the last moment, here in the West Virginian Mountains, almost within sight of the pass itself, disaster threatened—the human machine was giving out.

There were just two chances that Benton might yet be saved—that his leisurely advance had, by some miracle, already occupied the pass, or, if not, that she could get through and meet Benton in time to stop him.

She had been told that there was a cabin at the pass, and that the mountaineer who lived there was a Union man.

Thinking of these things as she crossed the ridge, she came suddenly into full view of the pass. It lay there just below her; there could be no mistake. A stony road wound along the stream, flanked by forest-clad heights; she recognized the timber bridge over the ravine, which had been described to her, the corduroy way across the swamp, the single, squat cabin crowning a half-cleared hillock. She realized at a glance the awful trap that this silent, deadly place could be turned into; for one rushing moment her widening eyes could almost see blue masses of men in disorder, crushed into that horrible defile; her ears seemed to ring with their death cries, the rippling roar of rifle fire. Then, with a sharp, indrawn breath, she hastened forward, taking the descent at a run. And at the same moment three gray-jacketed cavalrymen cantered into the road below, crossed the timber bridge at a gallop, and disappeared in the pass, carbines poised.