"Thank you," returned her visitor, obeying instructions, seating himself and loosening the upper buttons of his coat. On his neck, suspended by a chain, was a silver locket containing the miniature of a plump and pretty child. It had lain there since the war began, through many a bivouac, many a weary march, and even in the charge he could feel it tapping against his breast; so now, as he held it out to Virgie, the father's hand was trembling.

"There she is. My Gertrude—my little Gertrude."

Virgie leaned forward eagerly.

"Oh!" she said, in unaffected admiration, "She's mighty pretty. She's—" The child stopped suddenly, and raised her eyes. "An' she's fat, too. I reckon Gertrude gets lots to eat, doesn't she?"

"Why, yes," agreed the father, thinking of his comfortable Northern home; "of course. Don't you?"

Virgie weighed the question thoughtfully before she spoke.

"Sometimes—when Daddy gets through the lines and brings it to me."

The soldier started violently, wrenched back from the selfish dream of happiness that rose as he looked at the picture of his child.

"What! Is that why your father comes?"

"Yes, sir."

"I didn't know! I thought he came—"

He rose to his feet and turned away, his thoughts atumble, a pang of parental pity gnawing at his heart; then he wheeled and faced her, asking, with a break in his husky voice:

"And at other times—what do you eat, then?"

She made a quaint, depreciating gesture toward the appointments of her breakfast table.

"Blackberries—an'—an' coffee made out of aco'ns."

Again the troubled conqueror turned away.

"Oh, it's a shame!" he muttered between his teeth. "A wicked shame!"

He stood for a moment, silently, till Virgie spoke and jarred him with another confidence.

"My cousin Norris told me that the Yankees have bread every day; an' tea—an' milk—an' everything. An' butter!"

This last-named article of common diet was mentioned with an air of reverential awe; and, somehow, it hurt the well-fed Union officer far more than had she made some direct accusation against the invading armies of the North.

"Don't, Virgie—please," he murmured softly. "There are some things we just can't bear to listen to—even in times of war." He sighed and dropped into his former seat, striving gently to change the subject. "You have lived here—always?"

"Oh, no," she assured him, with a lift of her small, patrician brows. "This is the overseer's house. Our house used to be up on the hill, in the grove."

"Used to be—?"

"Yes, sir. But—but the Yankees burnt it up."

Morrison's fist came down on the table with a crash. He remembered now his raid of some months before upon this same plantation, so unfamiliar in its present neglected state. Again he looked into the fearless eyes of a Southern gentlewoman who mocked him while her lover husband swam the river and escaped. Again he saw the mansion wrapped in flame and smoke—the work of a drunken fiend in his own command. Yes, he remembered now; too well; then he turned to the child and spoke:

"Tell me about it. Won't you?"

She nodded, wriggled from her chair, and stood beside the table.

"Oh, it was a long time ago—a month, maybe—an' they came after our horses. Mamma an' me were all by ourselves—'ceptin' Uncle Billy and Sally Ann. An' we were dreadful scared—an' we hid in the ice house."

She paused. Her listener had leaned his elbow on the table, his hand across his eyes.

"Yes, dear. Go on."

The child had been standing opposite, with Susan Jemima and the acorn-coffee pot between them; but gradually she began to edge a little nearer, till presently she stood beside him, fingering a shiny button on his coat.

"An' the blue boys ate up everything we had—an' took our corn. An' when they went away from our house, they—a man set it on fire. But another man got real mad with him, an'—an' shot him. I know, 'cause Uncle Billy put him in the ground." She paused, then sank her voice to a whisper of mysterious dread, "An'—an' I saw him!"

"Don't think about it, Virgie," begged Morrison, slipping his arm about the mite, and trying not to put his own beloved ones in the little rebel's place. "What happened then?"

"We came to live here," said Virgie; "but Mamma got sick. Oh, she got terrible sick—an' one night Daddy came through, and put her in the ground, too. But he says she's jus' asleep."

The soldier started. Mrs. Cary dead? This poor tot motherless? He drew the baby closer to him, stroking her hair, as her sleeping mother might have done, and waited for the rest.

"An' las' Friday, Sally Ann went away—I don't know where—an'—"

"What?" asked Morrison. "She left you here—all by yourself?"

"Yes, sir," said the child, with a careless laugh. "But I don't mind. Sally Ann was a triflin' nigger, anyhow. You see—"

"Wait a minute," he interrupted, "what became of the old colored man who—"

"Uncle Billy? Yes, sir. We sent him up to Richmond—to get some things, but he can't come back—the Yankees won't let him."

"Won't they?"

"No, sir. An' Daddy's been tryin' to get me up to Richmon', where my Aunt Margaret lives at, but he can't—'cause the Yankees are up the river an' down the river, an'—an' everywhere—an' he can't." She paused, as Morrison turned to her from his restless pacing up and down. "My, but you've got fine clo'es! Daddy's clo'es are all rags—with—with holes in 'em."

He could not answer. There was nothing for him to say, and Virgie scorched him with another question:

"What did you come after Daddy for?"

"Oh, not because I wanted to, little girl," he burst out harshly. "But you wouldn't understand." He had turned away, and was gazing through the open door, listening to the muttered wrath of the big black guns far down the river. "It's war! One of the hateful, pitiful things of war! I came because I had my orders."

"From your Gen'ral?"

He lowered his chin, regarding her in mild astonishment.

"Yes—my General."

"An' do you love him—like I love Gen'ral Lee?"

"Yes, dear," he answered earnestly; "of course."

He wondered again to see her turn away in sober thought, tracing lines on the dusty floor with one small brown toe; for the child was wrestling with a problem. If a soldier had orders from his general, as she herself might put it, "he was bound to come"; but still it was hard to reconcile such duty with the capture of her father. Therefore, she raised her tiny chin and resorted to tactics of a purely personal nature:

"An' didn't you know, if you hurt my daddy, I'd tell Uncle Fitz Lee on you?"

"No," the Yankee smiled. "Is he your uncle?"

The littlest rebel regarded him with a look of positive pity for his ignorance.

"He's everybody's uncle," she stated warmly. "An' if I was to tell him, he'd come right after you an'—an' lick the stuffins out of you."

The soldier laughed.

"My dear," he confided, with a dancing twinkle in hip eye, "to tell you the honest truth, your Uncle Fitz has done it already—several times."

"Has he?" she cried, in rapturous delight. "Oh, has he?"

"He has," the enemy repeated, with vigor and conviction. "But suppose we shift our conversation to matters a shade more pleasant. Take you, for instance. You see—" He stopped abruptly, turning his head and listening with keen intentness. "What's that?" he asked.

"I didn't hear anything," said Virgie, breathing very fast; but she too had heard it—a sound above them, a scraping sound, as of someone lying flat along the rafters and shifting his position and, while she spoke, a telltale bit of plaster fell, and broke as it struck the floor.

Morrison looked up, starting as he saw the outlines of the closely fitting scuttle, for the loft was so low and shallow that he had not suspected its presence from an outside view; but now he was certain of the fugitive's hiding-place. Virgie watched him, trembling, growing hot in the pit of her little stomach; yet, when he faced her, she looked him squarely in the eye, fighting one last battle for her daddy—as hopeless as the tottering cause of the Stars and Bars.

"You—you don't think he can fly, do you?"

"No, little Rebel," the soldier answered gently, sadly; "but there are other ways." He glanced at the table, measuring its height with the pitch of the ceiling, then turned to her again: "Is your father in that loft?" She made no answer, but began to back away. "Tell me the truth. Look at me!" Still no answer, and he took a step toward her, speaking sternly: "Do you hear me? Look at me!"

She tried; but her courage was oozing fast. She had done her best, but now it was more than the mite could stand; so she bit her lip to stop its quivering, and turned her head away. For a moment the man stood, silent, wondering if it was possible that the child had been coached in a string of lies to trade upon his tenderness of heart; then he spoke, in a voice of mingled pity and reproach:

"And so you told me a story. And all the rest—is a story, too. Oh, Virgie! Virgie!"

"I didn't!" she cried, the big tears breaking, out at last. "I didn't tell you stories'. Only jus' a little one—for Daddy—an' Gen'ral Lee."

She was sobbing now, and the man looked down upon her in genuine compassion, his own eyes swimming at her childish grief, his soldier heart athrob and aching at the duty he must perform.

"I'm sorry, dear," he sighed, removing her doll and dragging the table across the floor to a point directly beneath the scuttle in the ceiling.

"What are you goin' to do?" she asked in terror, following as he moved. "Oh, what are you goin' to do?"

He did not reply. He could not; but when he placed a chair upon the table and prepared to mount, then Virgie understood.

"You shan't! You shan't!" she cried out shrilly. "He's my daddy—and you shan't."

She pulled at the table, and when he would have put her aside, as gently as he could, she attacked him fiercely, in a childish storm of passion, sobbing, striking at him with her puny fists. The soldier bowed his head and moved away.

"Oh, I can't! I can't!" he breathed, in conscience-stricken pain. "There must be some other way; and still—"

He stood irresolute, gazing through the open door, watching his men as they hunted for a fellow man; listening to the sounds that floated across the stricken fields—the calls of his troopers; the locusts in the sun-parched woods chanting their shrill, harsh litany of drought; but more insistent still came the muffled boom of the big black guns far down the muddy James. They called to him, these guns, in the hoarse-tongued majesty of war, bidding him forget himself, his love, his pity—all else, but the grim command to a marching host—a host that must reach its goal, though it marched on a road of human hearts.

The soldier set his teeth and turned to the little rebel, deciding on his course of action; best for her, best for the man who lay in the loft above, though now it must seem a brutal cruelty to both.

"Well, Virgie," he said, "since you haven't told me what I want to know, I'll have to take you—and give you to the Yankees."

He stepped toward her swiftly and caught her by the wrist. She screamed in terror, fighting to break his hold, while the trap above them opened, and the head and shoulders of the Southerner appeared, his pistol held in his outstretched hand.

"Drop it, you hound!" he ordered fiercely. "Drop it!"

The Northerner released his captive, but stood unmoved as he looked into the pistol's muzzle and the blazing eyes of the cornered scout.

"I'm sorry," he said, in quiet dignity. "I'm very sorry; but I had to bring you out." He paused, then spoke again: "And you needn't bother about your gun. If you'd had any ammunition, our fire would have been returned, back yonder in the woods. The game's up, Cary. Come down!"



CHAPTER VI

The head and shoulders disappeared. A short pause followed, then the ladder came slowly down, and the Southerner descended, while Virgie crouched, a sobbing little heap, beside her doll. But when he reached the bottom rung, she rose to her feet and ran to meet him, weeping bitterly.

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, I didn't do it right! I didn't do it right!"

She buried her head in his tattered coat, while he slipped an arm about her and tried to soothe a sorrow too great for such a tiny heart to bear.

"But you did do it right," he told her. "It was my fault. Mine! My leg got cramped, and I had to move." He stooped and kissed her. "It was my fault, honey; but you?—you did it splendidly!" He patted her tear-stained cheek, then turned to his captor, with a grim, hard smile of resignation to his fate.

"Well, Colonel, you've had a long chase of it; but you've gotten my brush at last."

The Union soldier faced him, speaking earnestly:

"Captain Cary, you're a brave man—and one of the best scouts in the Confederate army. I regret this happening—more than I can say." The Southerner shrugged his shoulders. His Northern captor asked: "Are you carrying dispatches?"

"No."

"Any other papers?—of any kind?" No answer came, and he added sternly: "It is quite useless to refuse. Give them to me."

He held out his hand, but his captive only looked him in the eyes; and the answer, though spoken in an undertone, held a world of quiet meaning:

"You can take it—afterwards."

The Federal officer bit his lip; and yet he could not, would not, be denied. His request became demand, backed by authority and the right of might, till Virgie broke in, in a piping voice of indignation:

"You can't have it! It's mine! My pass to Richmon'—from Gen'ral Lee."

Morrison turned slowly from the little rebel to the man.

"Is this true?" he asked.

The Southerner flushed, and for reply produced the rumpled paper from his boot leg, and handed it over without a word. The Northerner read it carefully.

"Pass Virginia Cary and escort through all Confederate lines and give safe-conduct wherever possible.

"R.E. LEE, General."

The reader crushed the paper in his fist, while his hand sank slowly to his side, then he raised his head and asked, in a voice which was strangely out of keeping with a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Union Cavalry:

"And who was to be her escort? You?"

The captive nodded, smiling his sad, grim smile; and the captor swallowed hard as he moved to the cabin door and stood listening to the muttered rumble of the river guns.

"I'm sorry, Cary," he whispered brokenly; "more sorry than you can understand."

For a long time no one spoke, then the Southerner went to Virgie, dropping his hand in tenderness on her tumbled hair.

"Just go into your room, honey; I want to talk to Colonel Morrison." She looked up at him doubtfully; but he added, with a reassuring smile: "It's all right, darling. I'll call you in just a minute."

Still Virgie seemed to hesitate. She shifted her doubting eyes toward the Union officer, turned, and obeyed in silence, closing the door of the adjoining room behind her. Then the two men faced each other, without the hampering presence of the child, each conscious of the coming tragedy that both, till now, had striven manfully to hide. The one moved forward toward a seat, staggering as he walked, and catching himself on the table's edge, while the other's hand went out to lend him aid; but the Southerner waved him off.

"Thank you," he said, as he sank into a chair. "I don't want help—from you!"

"Why not?" asked Morrison.

"Because," said Cary, in sullen anger, "I don't ask quarter, nor aid, from a man who frightens children."

The Northerner's chin went up; and when he replied his voice was trembling; not in passion, but with a deeper, finer something which had gripped his admiration for the courage of a child:

"And I wouldn't hurt a hair of her splendid little head!" He paused, then spoke again, more calmly: "You thought me a beast to frighten her; but don't you know it was the only thing to do? Otherwise my men might have had to shoot you—before her eyes." Cary made no answer, though now he understood; and Morrison went on: "It isn't easy for me to track a fellow creature down; to take him when he's wounded, practically unarmed, and turn him over to a firing squad. But it's war, my friend—one of the merciless realities of war—and you ought to know the meaning of its name."

"Yes, I know," returned the Southerner, with all the pent-up bitterness of a hopeless struggle and defeat; "it has taken three years to teach me—and I know! Look at me!" he cried, as he stood up in his rags and spread his arms. "Look at my country, swept as bare as a stubble field! You've whipped us, maybe, with your millions of money and your endless men, and now you are warring with the women and the children!" He turned his back and spoke in the deep intensity of scorn: "A fine thing, Colonel! And may you get your ... reward!"

The Northerner set his lips in a thin, cold line; but curbed his wrath and answered the accusation quietly:

"There are two sides to the question, Cary; but there must be one flag!"

"Then fly your flag in justice!" the Southerner retorted hotly, wheeling on his enemy, with blazing eyes and with hands that shook in the stress of passion. "A while ago you called me a brave man and a good scout; and, because I'm both, your people have set a price on me. Five hundred dollars—alive or dead!" He laughed; a hoarse, harsh travesty of mirth, and added, with a lip that curled in withering contempt: "Alive or dead! A gentleman and a scout!—for just half the price of one good, sound nigger! By Heaven, it makes me proud!"

Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison looked across the table at his prisoner, and answered gravely, yet with a touch of sternness in his military tone:

"You are more than a scout, Cary. You've carried dispatches, and intercepted ours; for both of which, if taken, you would have been a prisoner of war, no more. But you've entered our lines—not in a uniform of gray, but blue—and you've cost us the loss of two important battles."

"And had you done the same," returned the Southerner, "for you it would have meant promotion. I've served my cause as best I could; in the saddle or the rifle pit; in the woods, or creeping through your lines. If I've cost you a battle, my life is a puny price to pay, and I'd pay it without a sigh." He paused and sank into his seat. "For myself, I don't care much. I'm worn out, anyway; and I only wanted to get my little girl to Richmond." At the thought of Virgie his anger returned to him, and he once more staggered to his feet.

"But you," he accused, "you've beaten a baby by the force of arms! You've run me to earth—and you've blocked her chance! It's Virgie you are fighting now—not me—yes, just as if you rode her down with a troop of horse! A fine thing, Colonel! For you, a brevet! For me, a firing squad! Well, call in your men and get it over!" Again he smiled; a grim, slow smile of bitterness and scorn. "Bravo, Colonel Morrison! Bravo! You add one other glory to your conquering sword—and, besides, you'll receive five hundred dollars in reward!"

The Northerner turned upon him fiercely, goaded at last to the breaking-point in a struggle as black and awful as the struggle of his brother-foe.

"Stop it, man!" he cried. "I order you to stop! It's duty!—not a miserable reward!" His cheeks were flaming; his muscles quivered, and his fists were clenched. "Do you actually suppose," he asked, "that I'm proud of this? Do you think I'm wringing blood out of your heart and mine—for money?"

They faced each other, two crouching, snarling animals, the raw, primeval passions of their hearts released, each seeing through a mist of red; a mist that had risen up to roll across a mighty land and plunge its noblest sons into a bloody ruck of war.

They faced each other, silently; then slowly the features of the Southerner relaxed. His bitterness was laid aside. He spoke, in the soft, slow accent of his people—an accent so impossible to a trick of print or pen.

"I'm glad you feel that way; and maybe, after all, you're doing what you think is right. Yes—and I know it's hard." He stopped, then stepped a little nearer, timidly, as Virgie might have done. "Colonel," he said, scarce audibly, "I ask you just one thing; not for myself, but for her—for Virgie. Get the poor little tad through your lines, will you?—and—and don't let her know—about me."

His captor did not answer him in words, because of the pain that took him by the throat; but his hand went out, till it reached another hand that gripped it gratefully.

"Thank you, Morrison," said the prisoner simply. "If it wasn't war times—"

He choked, and said no more; yet silence proved more eloquent than human speech. They were men—brave men—and both were grateful; the one, because an enemy would keep his unspoken word; the other, because a doomed man understood.

Cary opened the door of his daughter's room and called to her. She came in quickly, a question in her big brown eyes.

"Daddy," she said, "you talked a mighty long time. It was a heap more than jus' a minute."

"Was it?" he asked, and forced a smile. "Well, you see, we had a lot to say." He seated himself and, drawing her between his knees, took both her hands. "Now listen, honey; I'm going away with this gentleman, and—" He stopped as she looked up doubtfully; then added a dash of gayety to his tender tone: "Oh, but he invited me. And think! He's coming back for you—to-day—to send you up to Richmond. Now, isn't that just fine?"

Virgie looked slowly from her father to the Union soldier, who stood with downcast eyes, his back to them.

"Daddy," she whispered, "he's a right good Yankee—isn't he?"

"Yes, dear," her father murmured sadly, and in yearning love for the baby he must leave behind; "yes—he's mighty good!"

He knelt and folded her in his arms, kissing her, over and over, while his hand went fluttering about her soft brown throat; then he wrenched himself away, but stood for a lingering instant more, his hands outstretched, atremble for a last and lingering touch, his heart a racing protest at the parting he must speak.

"Cary!"

It was Morrison who spoke, in mercy for the man; and once more Cary understood. He turned to cross the broken door; to face a firing squad in the hot, brown woods; to cross the gulf which stretched beyond the rumble of the guns and the snarling lip of war. But even as he turned, a baby's voice called out, in cheerful parting, which he himself had failed to speak:

"Good-by, Daddy-man. I'll see you up in Richmon'."

The eyes of the two men met and held, in the hardest moment of it all; for well they knew this hopeful prophecy could never be fulfilled. Morrison sighed and moved toward the door; but, from its threshold, he could see his troopers returning at a trot across the fields.

"Wait," he said to Cary; "I'd rather my men shouldn't know I've talked with you." He pointed to the scuttle in the ceiling. "Would you mind if I asked you to go back again? Hurry! They are coming."

The captured scout saluted, crossed to the ladder, and began to mount. At the top he paused to smile and blow a kiss to Virgie, then disappeared, drew up the ladder after him, and closed the trap.

The captor stood in silence, waiting for his men; yet, while he stood, the little rebel pattered to his side, slipping her hand in his confidingly.

"Mr. Yankee," she asked, and looked up into his face, "are you goin' to let Daddy come to Richmon', too?"

Morrison withdrew his hand from hers—withdrew it sharply—flung himself into a seat beside the table, and began to scribble on the back of Virgie's rumpled pass; while the child stood watching, trusting, with the simple trust of her little mother-heart.

In a moment or two, the troopers came hurrying in, with Corporal Dudley in the lead. He stood at attention, saluted his superior, and made his report of failure in the search.

"Nothing sir. No tracks around the spring, and no traces of the fellow anywhere; but—" He stopped. His keen eyes marked the changed position of the table and followed upward. He saw the outlines of the scuttle above his head, and smiled. "But I'm glad to see that you've had better luck yourself."

"Yes, Corporal," said Morrison, with a sharp return of his military tone, "I think I've found the fox's hole at last." He rose and gave his orders briskly. "Push that table forward!—there!—below the trap! Two of you get on it!" He turned to the Corporal, while he himself climbed up and stood beside his men. "Light that candle and pass it up to me!" The orders were obeyed. "Now, boys, boost me!—and we'll have him out."

They raised him, till he pushed the trap aside and thrust his head and shoulders through the opening. From below they could see him as he waved the lighted candle to and fro, and presently they heard his voice, that sounded deep and muffled in the shallow loft:

"All right, boys! You can let me down."

He slid to the table and sprang lightly to the floor, facing his troopers with a smile, half-humorous, half in seeming disappointment, as he glanced at Virgie.

"I'm afraid the little rebel's right again. He isn't there!"

"Oh!" cried Virgie, then clapped her hands across her mouth, while the troopers slowly looked from her into the level eyes of their commanding officer. He stood before them, straight and tall, a soldier, every inch of him; and they knew that Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison was lying like a gentleman. They knew that their chief was staking the name and title of an honorable soldier against the higher, grander title of "a man."

Only Corporal Dudley stood disconcerted at the startling statement, but as there was no help for it he could only strangle an oath and give the order to pass out.

"'Tention! Right face! Forward! March!"

They mounted and rode a rod or two away, awaiting orders; while Morrison stood silently and watched them go. He, too—like Virgie—had wrestled with a problem, and it stirred him to the depths. As a trooper must obey, so also must an officer obey a higher will; yes, even as a slave in iron manacles. The master of war had made his laws; and a servant broke them, knowingly. A captured scout was a prisoner, no more; a spy must hang, or fall before the volley of a firing squad. No matter for his bravery; no matter for the faithful service to his cause, the man must die! The glory was for another; for one who waved a flag on the spine of a bloody trench; a trench which his brothers stormed—and gave the blood. No matter that a spy had made this triumph possible. He had worn a uniform which was not his own—and the dog must die!

So ruled the god of warfare; still, did war prescribe disgrace and death for all? If Cary had crept through the Union lines, to reach the side of a helpless little one—yes, even in a coat of blue—would the Great Tribunal count his deed accursed? Should fearless human love reap no reward beyond the crashing epitaph of a firing squad, and the powder smoke that drifted with the passing of a soul?

"No! No!" breathed Morrison. "In God's name, give the man his chance!"

He straightened his back and smiled. He took from the table a rumpled paper and turned to the littlest factor in the great Rebellion.

"Here, Virgie! Here's your pass to Richmond—for you and your escort—through the Federal lines."

She came to him slowly, wondering; her tiny body quivering with suppressed excitement, her voice a whispering caress:

"Do you mean for—for Daddy, too?"

"Yes, you little rebel!" he answered, choking as he laughed; "but I'm terribly afraid you'll have to pay me—with a kiss."

She sprang into his waiting arms, and kissed him as he raised her up; but when he would have set her down, her little brown hands, with their berry-stained fingers, clung tightly about his neck.

"Wait! Wait!" she cried. "Here's another one—for Gertrude! Tell her it's from Virgie! An' tell her I sent it, 'cause her daddy is jus' the best damn Yankee that ever was!"

The trap above had opened, and the head and shoulders of the Southerner appeared; while Morrison looked up and spoke in parting:

"It's all right, Cary. I only ask a soldier's pledge that you take your little girl to Richmond—nothing more. In passing through our lines, whatever you see or hear—forget!"

A sacred trust it was, of man to man, one brother to another; and Morrison knew that Herbert Cary would pass through the very center of the Federal lines, as a father, not a spy.

The Southerner tried to speak his gratitude, but the words refused to come; so he stretched one trembling hand toward his enemy of war, and eased his heart in a sobbing, broken call:

"Morrison! Some day it will all—be over!"

* * * * *

In the cabin's doorway stood Virgie and her father, hand in hand. They watched a lonely swallow as it dipped across the desolate, unfurrowed field. They listened to the distant beat of many hoofs on the river road and the far, faint clink of sabers on the riders' thighs; and when the sounds were lost to the listeners at last, the notes of a bugle came whispering back to them, floating, dipping, even as the swallow dipped across the unfurrowed fields.

But still the two stood lingering in the doorway, hand in hand. The muddy James took up his murmuring song again; the locusts chanted in the hot, brown woods to the basso growl of the big, black guns far down the river.

A sad, sad song it was; yet on its echoes seemed to ride a haunting, hopeful memory of the rebel's broken call, "Some day it will all be over!"

And so the guns growled on, slow, sullen, thundering forth the battle-call of a still unconquered enmity; but only that peace might walk "some day" in the path of the shrieking shells.



CHAPTER VII

It was afternoon and over on the eastern side of the James where the old Turnpike leads up over the rolling hills to Richmond the sun was pouring down a flood of heat. The 'pike was ankle deep with dust and the fine, white powder, churned into floury softness by artillery and the myriad iron heels of war, had settled down on roadside bush and tree and vine till all the sweet green of summer hung its head under the hot weight and longed for a cooling shower which would wash it clean.

In fairer times the Pike had been an active thoroughfare for the plantations and hundreds of smaller truck farms which fed the capitol, but of late months nearly all this traffic had disappeared. For the days of the Confederacy were drawing slowly but none the less surely to a close.

Inside the breastworks and far flung fortifications which encompassed Richmond the flower of the rebel arms, the Army of Northern Virginia, lay like a rat caught in a trap. On three sides, north, east and south the Army of the Potomac under Grant beleaguered the city while the tireless Sheridan, with that lately developed arm of the Federals, the cavalry, raided right and left and struck hard blows at the crumbling cause where they were least expected. Yet in this same dark hour there had been a ray of light. Once the Confederacy had come within hairbreadth of overwhelming success, for Early's hard riding troopers had made a dash for Washington but a few weeks before and, with the prize almost in their grasp, had only been turned back by a great force which the grim, watchful Grant suddenly threw in between their guns and the gleaming dome of the nation's capitol.

But even this small success was not for long for when Early, crossing over into the luscious valley of the Shenandoah, began to scourge it with his hosts and threaten a raid into Pennsylvania, Sheridan broke loose from the restriction of telegraph wires and followed him to the death and finally broke the back of the great raid with his mad gallop from Winchester.

Meanwhile around Richmond, Lee and Grant, a circle within a circle, were constantly feeling each other out, shifting their troops from point to point in attack and defense,—for all the world like two fighting dogs hunting for an opening in the fence. And all the time the grim, quiet man in blue kept contracting his lines around the wonderful tactician in gray until the whole world came to know that unless Lee could break through the gap to the southwest the end of the war was plainly in sight.

And so it happened that on this hot July day the only sign of life on the 'pike was a small cloud of dust which drifted lazily in the wake of two people who passed along the road on foot.

One of the two was a tired, gaunt man in a ragged uniform of gray who stared up the long, hot road ahead of him with eyes in which there was, in spite of every discouragement the light of a certain firm resolve.

The other of the two was a child with bare, brown legs and tattered gingham dress who limped painfully along beside the man, her sunny hair in a tangle half across her pinched and weary little face.

At a faint sigh of exhaustion from the child the man looked down, gathered her up in his arms and perched her on his shoulder. Then he plodded on again, a prey to weariness and hunger. The turning point in Herbert Cary's life had come. Thanks to a generous enemy; Virgie and he were now reasonably sure of food if once they could reach the Confederate lines but as for himself, with the woman he had loved asleep forever beneath the pines, the future could only be an unending, barren stretch of gray.

Then, almost as quickly, recollection of his duty towards her whom he carried in his arms came to him and he raged at himself for his moment of selfish discouragement. Spurred on by the necessity of gaining a point of safety for his child he began to calculate the distance yet to be covered and their chances of gaining friendly lines before encountering scouting parties of Federals. Behind him, a few miles south on the other bank of the James at Light House Point Sheridan was in camp with two brigades and Cary knew this fast riding, hard striking cavalryman too well not to suspect that the country, even in front of him, was alive with Union men. There was the pass which Morrison had given him, of course, but the worth of a pass in war time often depends more on him who receives it than on the signature.

But all those things, even food, would have to wait for a while because he was consumed with thirst and must find water before he went another mile forward.

A tired sigh from Virgie caught his ear and he stopped by a stone wall and let her get down from his shoulder. The child stood up on the broad, flat stones and then gave a little cry of pain. She raised one foot up and nursed it against her dusty, brown leg, meanwhile clutching her doll closer to her neck.

"It's all right, honey; be a brave little girl," her father said consolingly. "There's a spring along here somewhere and we can look after that poor little foot. Ah, there it is," he cried, as he caught sight of a big rock behind a stone wall with a seepage of water under it among some trees at one side. "Just sit still a minute—till I rest—and then we'll have a look." He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes to shut out the dizziness with which exhaustion and hunger filled his aching head.

The child watched him anxiously for a moment and then put a soft little hand on his shoulder:

"Are you so tired, Daddy-man?"

"Yes, dear," he answered with a faint smile as he opened his eyes. "I had to catch my breath, but I'm really all right. Now then, we'll call in the hospital corps."

Virgie slipped down and sat on the top of the wall with her foot in her hand, rocking to and fro, but bravely saying nothing until her father's eye caught the look of pain on her pinched face.

"Does it hurt you much, dear?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. It—it hurts like the mischief," answered Virgie in a small voice. "It keeps jumping up and down."

"Little woman, that's too bad," he said with a consoling pat on the head which seemed to take most of the pain away. "But after we bathe it and tie it up it will feel better."

Kneeling beside the spring he took off his campaign hat of felt and dipped it full of clear, cold water.

"Wow!" cried Virgie suddenly in the interval and she slapped her leg with a resounding whack. "There are 'skeeters roun' this place. One of 'em bit me—an old he one. Jiminy!"

"Did he?" asked her father, smiling as he came back with the hat. "Well, honey, there are much worse things in this world than those little fellows and if you don't complain any more than that you're going to be a very happy lady when you grow up."

"Like Mamma?" asked the little tot, with a thoughtful face.

"Just like Mamma," the man repeated. "The loveliest—the bravest—and the best." He wavered a little on his feet and the hat threatened to slip through his fingers, but his daughter's great, dark eyes were steady on his and, curiously enough, he seemed to draw strength to pull himself together.

"And now, let's see. We'll have to get the grime off first. Just dip the little wounded soldier in."

"What! My foot in your hat!" protested Virgie with a little scream. "Oh, you poor daddy!"

"Why, that's all right, honey," he laughed, pleased at her daintiness. "That hat's an old veteran. He don't mind anything. So—souse her in.

"There—easy now—easy" as she threatened to capsize this curious basin. "Big toe first.

"Yes, I know it's cold," he laughed as the water stung the broken skin and made her twitch involuntarily, "but bathing will do it good. I just know it feels better already—doesn't it?"

"Yes, sir," answered Virgie meekly, "only—it jumps up and down harder than ever. But of course I know it must be getting better."

"Good! What did I tell you? Now let Daddy look."

He lifted her foot up tenderly and examined it with care. "My, my!" he murmured. "You poor little soldier. If I hadn't looked around that time I expect you'd been willing to walk all the way to Richmond on a foot that would make a whole regiment straggle. Just see where you've cut it—right under the second little piggie. We'll have to tie it right up and keep the bothersome old dust from getting in. By morning you'll hardly feel it."

With a soldier's readiness he opened his coat and began to tear a strip from his shirt from which to make a bandage. But his small daughter interrupted him with a vigorous protest.

"Wait!" she cried, with a face full of alarm at the willful destruction of his garment. "Don't do that. Here! You can take it off my petticoat."

"That petticoat," her father laughed, with the first real mirth she had heard for many weeks. "That poor little petticoat wouldn't make an arm bandage for Susan Jemima. Now—up with your hoofie and let's play I'm a surgeon and you're a brave soldier who has fought in every battle since we first made the Yanks skedaddle at Bull Run."

With the painful foot securely bandaged the little girl gave herself up to thought, emerging from her study at last to ask what was an all-important question.

"Daddy—"

"Yes?"

"Do you reckon, by the time the war is over, we could call Susan Jemima a vet'ran?"

"I should say we could," the father agreed heartily, without the symptom of a smile. "Hasn't she grown bald in the service? And hasn't she almost lost an arm—or is it a leg I see dangling so terribly? I'll tell you what we'll do! We'll give her an honorable discharge—and decorate her. How's that?"

"Oh, fine!" she cried, clapping her hands with delight at the fantasy. "And we'll get that Yankee man to write her a pass just like mine. Do you hear that, Cap'n Susan," she crooned to the doll, unconscious of the convulsion of silent amusement beside her. "When we get to Richmon'—if we ever do get there—I'm going to make you a uniform!"

Then she turned to her father with a little sigh, for the miles seemed very long.

"How far is it to Richmon', Daddy-man?" she said.

"Just about twelve miles," her father answered. "But they're real old country miles, I'm sorry to say."

"Can we get to it to-night?"

The simple little question made the man's heart ache. What wouldn't he give for an hour of Roger once more—or Belle—or Lightfoot! Anything—even one of the old plantation mules would do if he could only perch her up on its back and take her into Richmond like a lady and not like the daughter of poor white trash, tramping, poverty stricken, along a dusty road.

"No, dear, not to-night," he sighed. "We've come a long way and we're both tired. So when it gets dark we'll curl up somewhere in the nice, sweet woods and take a snooze, just like camping out. And then—in the morning, when the old sun comes sneaking up through the trees, we'll fool him! We won't wait till he can make it hot, but we'll get right up with the birds and the squirrels and we'll just run right along. And by twelve o'clock we'll be in Richmond—where they have good things to eat. So there you are—all mapped out. Only now we'll have a belt supper."

"A belt supper?" queried the child curiously, though her face brightened at the thought of any kind of supper, made out of belts or any other thing.

"Um-hum," asseverated her father gravely. "See—this is the way it's done."

He cupped his hands and took a draught from the spring, pretending to chew it as it went down. "You take a big drink of nice cold water; then draw up your belt as tight as you can—and say your prayers."

To his surprise his small daughter only sniffed scornfully.

"Oh, shucks, Daddy! I know a better way than that. Susan an' me used to do it all the time while you were away."

"What did you do?" he asked curiously, for he had forgotten that more than half the childish play world is the world of "make believe.'"

"Why, we—we just 'let on,'" she answered, with simple naivete. "Sit down an' I'll show you how."

He sat down obediently, but not before he had picked up an old tin can from nearby and set it carefully between them.

"This rock is our table—the moss is the table cloth. Oh, it isn't green," she cried as he looked down in serious doubt. "You must help me make believe. Now—doesn't it look nice and white?"

"It does, indeed. I can see nothing but snowy linen of the finest texture," he responded instantly.

"That's better," complimented his hostess. And then with a grand air—

"I'm so glad you dropped in, sir—an' just at supper time. Pass your plate an' allow me to help you to some batter bread."

"Batter bread! Ah, just what I was hoping for," her guest replied, thankfully extending his plate for the imaginary feast.

"Thank you. Delicious. The very best I've tasted for a year. Did you make it yourself?"

"Oh, dear, no—the cook."

"Ah, of course! Pray pardon me, I might have known."

The little hostess inclined her head. "Take plenty of butter. 'Cause batter bread isn't good 'thout butter."

"Thank you—what lovely golden butter. And—goodness gracious! What is this I see before me? Can this really be a sausage?"

"Yes, sir," laughed Virgie with delight. "And there's the ham. I smoked it myself over hick'ry wood. Please help yourself."

She pretended to arrange a cup and saucer in front of her and held daintily in her fingers a pair of imaginary sugar tongs.

"Coffee? How many lumps? And do you take cream?"

"Five, please—and a little cream. There—just right."

She passed the cup gracefully and added a little moue of concern for the efficiency of her menage.

"I'm afraid you won't find it very hot," said this surprising young hostess. "That butler of mine is growing absolutely wuthless."

"Then perhaps we can have something better," her guest responded readily, and he picked up the battered old tin can. "Permit me, Miss Cary, to offer you a glass of fine old blackberry wine which I carefully brought with me to your beautiful home. It has been in my family wine cellars since 1838.

"Well—" he cried, as Virgie suddenly sat back with a look of painful recollection on her face.

"Oh, Daddy," she murmured pathetically, "don't let's call it blackberry wine."

"Forgive me, darling," her father said tenderly, and he took the small face between his hands and kissed her. "There, now—it's all right. It's all right."

To create a diversion he looked behind him with a frown and spoke with great severity to an imaginary waiter.

"Here, Jo! How dare you bring such terribly reminiscent stuff to our table. Go get the port.

"We'll surely have to discharge that butler," he said. "He's too shiftless. And now, fair lady, will you honor me by joining the humblest of your admirers in a sip of port."

"With pleasure," answered his hostess, and lifted the can of water in both hands. "Your health, sir. May your shadow never grow littler."

Half way through her drink Virgie stopped and slowly put the can down. She looked at her father, who already had his finger at his lips. Voices had come to them from down the road—the sounds of a party of men talking and laughing as they marched along.

Cary's face took on again the grim lines which had been wiped away momentarily by their little bit of play. He was trying to make himself believe that the approaching party might be friends, although he knew only too well that such a possibility was full of doubt. There were too many scouting parties of Federals ready to pounce on Rebel patrols in these perilous days to allow any but large forces of men to venture far from Richmond, and when his own men sallied forth they did not go with laughter but with tightly drawn, silent lips.

"S-s-s-h," he whispered, and held up his finger again, as she seemed ready to burst into questioning.

Immediately she snuggled close to him and whispered hotly in his ear, "Who are they, Daddy?"

"I don't know, honey," he whispered back. "But I'm afraid they're Yanks. Keep quiet till they pass." And quickly deserting the stone under the trees where they had had their "belt supper" he drew her with him behind the large ledge of rock from under which the spring flowed out. Looking behind them he saw that with good luck they could reach the shelter of the woods and get up over the hill without being seen. But just now they could not stir from their hiding place unless—unless the men were Confederates. This faint hope, however, soon flickered out when he saw the color of their uniforms.

Up the road came four dismounted men with a corporal in command. They were taking it easy as they walked along, their caps thrust back, their coats open and their Sharps' carbines carried in the variety of ways that a soldier adopts to ease his shoulder of the burden that grows heavier with every mile.

"Here's the place, boys," the Corporal called out as his eye fell on the spring. "We can get some decent water, now. That James River water's too yellow for any white man to put inside of him."

At the sound of a voice which he had heard that same morning while he hid in the attic of the overseer's cabin Cary's hold on his daughter's hand tightened warningly.

"Come along, Virgie," he whispered. "We'll get out of the way."

"But, Daddy," she protested in low tones, "we've got our pass."

"Yes, yes, I know," he answered, with a twinge of regret that the rest of the world could not trust so faithfully to human kindness. "But that's for emergency. Come along, honey—quick!"

Silently as a shadow the two stole out of the shelter of the ledge of rock, and by dint of keeping it between them and the troopers, managed to cover most of the open space between the spring and the protecting trees without being seen. Meanwhile, they heard the Corporal giving his commands.

"You, Collins, take sentry duty out there in the road for a while. As soon as we make the coffee we'll bring you out a cup. Now—over the wall with you, men."

Leaving one man behind to pace slowly up and down the dusty road the four sprang over the wall and advanced towards the spring. It was well the sight of the cool water held their eyes for if they had only looked up they might have seen Virgie wresting her hand out of her father's grasp and standing suddenly petrified with the thought that she had left behind her one beloved possession.

"Here's the spring, Smith—under the rock. Fill up the canteens. Here, Harry, help me get fire wood."

With a soldier's readiness when it comes to making camp one of the troopers promptly collected the canteens and knelt down by the spring, carefully submerging one at a time so as to get the sweet, cold water in all its purity. Another opened the knapsacks and took out a can of coffee, biscuits and some scraps of meat—not much with which to make a meal but still so much more than many a Rebel soldier had that day as to take on the proportions of a feast. Meanwhile, Corporal Dudley had drawn his saber and was engaged in leisurely lopping off the dead branches of a fallen tree.

"This strikes me a lot better than the camp," he remarked as he tossed his firewood into a heap. "A man and his friends can have a quiet drink here, without treating a whole battalion."

His eye fell on the ground near the spring as he spoke and he paused. Then, with a grin on his face, he jabbed his saber into something which lay there and held it transfixed on the point.

"Say, boys—look at this," and he shook poor Susan Jemima till her arms and legs wiggled spasmodically and her dress seemed on the point of complete disintegration.

Perhaps, if Corporal Dudley had not laughed derisively Virgie might have stayed hidden in the protection of the trees, but this outrageous insult combined with the terrible sight of poor Susan Jemima impaled on a Yankee sword was too much for her bursting heart. With blazing eyes she broke away from her father and dashed back to the group at the spring.

"Here, you! You stop that," she cried angrily at the astonished troopers, who caught up their carbines at the sound of feet. "How dare you!"

There was a moment of surprise and then the four broke out in guffaws of laughter.

"Well, hang me if it isn't the little girl we saw this morning," shouted Dudley, without, however, stopping the torture of the defenseless Susan Jemima. "Where did you drop from?"

"Ne'm min' where I dropped from," commanded the wrathful Virgie with her dark eyes like twin stars of hate. "You're the meanest old thing I ever saw. Give me back my baby!"

Back in the trees a little way a man was watching with a heavy heart. He knew only too well what was to come. No matter what the final outcome might be when he showed his safe-guard to his own army's lines there would be a delay and searching questions and more of the old insults which always made his blood boil—which always made the increasing burden of despair still harder to bear. But there was no use in putting off the trial—Virgie had slipped away in spite of every whispered remonstrance and now that she was there in the center of that group of guffawing Yankees, there, too, was the only place for him. And so, he stepped out swiftly and faced the enemy.

"Hah!" shouted Dudley, looking up at the sound of branches crackling underfoot. "A Johnnie Reb, eh—walking right into camp! That's right, Harry, keep him covered."

He looked Cary over from head to foot with a sneer at his tattered uniform.

"Well, sir," he asked, "who are you?"

"A Confederate officer," was the quiet reply, "acting as escort for this child. We are on our way to Richmond."

Cary's hand went into the breast of his coat and he drew out a folded paper.

"Here is my authority for entering your lines—a pass signed by Lieutenant-Colonel Morrison."

At the sound of the name Corporal Dudley started and quickly took the paper. But before he opened it he gave Cary a keen look which, to the Confederate officer, did not bode well for the prospect of immediate release. It seemed as if the man's sharp wits had suddenly seized on something which he could profitably turn to his own account.

With his back turned on Cary and Virgie the Corporal unfolded the pass and studied it carefully, while the troopers gathered behind him and tried to read its contents over his shoulder.

"Pwhat does it say?" asked the young Irishman, Harry O'Connell, who had covered Cary with his carbine. "'Tis a precious bit of paper, bedad—if it passes him through me."

"It says: 'Pass Virginia Cary and escort through all Federal lines, and assist them as far as possible in reaching Richmond,'" read the Corporal.

Deep in thought he turned the paper over and studied the name on the back. At the sight of the signature there his mouth fell open and he uttered a shout of surprise. His eyes brightened and he stepped back from the group and threw up his head with a look of triumph on his dark face. He struck the paper a slap with the back of his hand.

"Morrison on one side—and 'Old Bob' on the other" he exclaimed. "What luck! What a find."

"How so—a find?"

The man who had had to put his own brother under arrest a few short weeks before and then had seen him shot through the heart by this same officer whose name was on the pass looked at the questioner with an ugly glitter in his eyes. He was beginning to taste already the sweets of revenge. For blood ties bind, no matter how badly they are stretched, and long ago Corporal Dudley had sworn to wipe out his grudge.

"Why, man, can't you see?" he whispered excitedly. "This Johnnie Reb is the man that was hiding in the cabin loft this morning. Morrison lied when he said he wasn't there—you remember, he was the only one who looked—he lied and as soon as he got us out of the way he let him come down and he gave him this. Could any man ask for better proof that we had the spy right in our hands and then our commanding officer deliberately let him go?"

At the sound of the man's excited whispering Cary's fears as to the value of Virgie's pass grew too strong to warrant this agony of watching and waiting, and he stepped forward with a sharp question:

"Well, Corporal, isn't the pass satisfactory?"

"Oh, perfectly—perfectly," Dudley answered with baleful readiness, but made no move to return it.

Cary put out his hand. "Then I would like to have it again, if you please."

By way of answer Corporal Dudley carefully found an inside pocket and buttoned the pass up in his coat. "Oh, no, you don't," he said, with an evil grin. "I've got a better use for that little piece of paper."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're my prisoner, Mister Johnnie Reb," was the brutal answer.

"For what?" asked Cary, while his heart grew sick inside him and his lips twitched. Richmond—and food for Virgie were growing farther away every moment.

"Because you're a Rebel spy, that's why," came the biting answer.

"Oh—none of that," as Cary's fists doubled up and he made a forward step at the Corporal. "I guess you know what's good for you, with three guns at your back. If Colonel Morrison wouldn't take you as a spy, I will!"

"Here, boys," he said in brusque command to his men, "we'll have to cut the supper and take this man to camp. There'll be a sunrise hanging to-morrow or I miss my guess. Come on, now. Bring him along."

"Wait a minute, Corporal," O'Connell said. "Sure I've something to say to ye," and he led him aside where the others could not bear.

All unconscious of the fatal predicament into which Susan Jemima and she had got them Virgie looked up at her father from where she stood in the shelter of his arm.

"Daddy," she questioned, in a small, puzzled voice, "what are they going to do?"

"S-s-s-h," her father commanded as he patted her head comfortingly. "Everything will be all right, honey, I'm sure." But he had caught enough of the Corporal's altercation with Trooper O'Connell to make him see that things were very far from being what he wanted Virgie to suppose.

"Ye'd better be careful now," O'Connell said to Dudley. "Ye know well that if the pass is all right ye'll be getting yerself into a peck o' trouble."

"It isn't me that'll get in trouble," Dudley answered, with grim triumph. "It's someone else."

"Faith, then, who?" was the query.

"Morrison," snapped Dudley, with an ominous click of his teeth.

"The Colonel? Why?"

"Because he helped this spy escape! that's why. He killed my brother, shot him. Shot him down like a dog. But now I'm even with him."

He shook the pass under the trooper's nose and crowed with satisfaction.

"I've been waiting for a chance like this," he chortled, "and now I'm going to make him sweat—sweat blood."

"Don't be a fool, Corporal," the trooper counseled. "What'll ye be after doin'?"

"Report him, at headquarters—for helping a spy escape! If I have the man and this," and he slapped the paper, "it'll mean his sword and shoulder straps—if not a bullet! Come on!"

He turned away, to scramble over the wall, but Trooper O'Connell caught his arm.

"Hold on! Ye may get in trouble."

In answer Dudley broke away and doggedly kept on towards the stone wall and the road. "Keep off," he snarled. "I'm running this."

"I know ye are," the trooper replied, "but wait," and he pointed to the rear. "Don't forgit that the Colonel's out yonder reconnoiterin'. If he happened to overtake ye on the road—"

Struck with the sudden thought Dudley paused. "Well, that's so," he growled as he saw how easily he could be held for disobeying orders and how quickly all his plans for vengeance could be smashed. He stood still for a moment gnawing his lip, then suddenly struck his doubled fist into the palm of the other hand.

"Then you stay here to guard the prisoner," he said. "I'll cut through the woods—make my report—come back with the horses—and my authority."

"Here, Smith! You and Judson come along with me. Never mind the grub. We'll get that later."

Turning to O'Connell, "If you hear anyone coming, take those two into the woods. Collins! You'll have to stay on sentry duty till I get back. If any troops pass here, get out of sight at once and give Harry warning. Now, boys—come along with me—we'll take it on the trot," and climbing quickly over the wall the man who held two lives in the hollow of his hand ran down the road with the two troopers, finally cutting over into the woods and disappearing from view.

Gary and Virgie stood still by the spring. Out in the road the sentry paced back and forth. Behind them Trooper O'Connell stood on guard, his carbine in his arms across his breast.

Virgie pulled gently at her father's hand.

"Daddy," she whispered, "are they—are they goin' to carry us off to the Yankee camp?"

"I'm afraid so, darling, but I don't know," he answered sadly. "We'll just have to wait. Wait," he repeated, as he sat down on a rock and drew her close to him. Without being seen either by Virgie or O'Connell he picked up a jagged stone the size of his fist and hid it under his knee against the rock. It would be a poor weapon at best, but Cary had grown desperate and if the trooper once turned his back and gave him opportunity poor Harry O'Connell would wake up with a very bad headache and Virgie would be in Richmond.

But Virgie's eyes were on neither the hidden stone nor her father's watchful, relentless face. All that Virgie could see was a knapsack open on the ground and food—real food displayed round about with a prodigality which made her mouth water and her eyes as big as saucers.

"Daddy," she murmured, clutching at his sleeve, "while we are waitin' do you reckon we could take just a little bit of that?"

"No, dear—not now," her father answered, with a touch of impatience. It would be too much, even in those bitter times, to accept a man's food and then break his head for it.

"Well," said Virgie, completely mystified at the restraint, "I don't see why they shouldn't be polite to us. We were just as polite as could be when the Yankees took our corn."

Just then the young Irishman with the carbine turned around and caught the wan look on Virgie's face and the hunger appeal in her big dark eyes. At once a broad smile broke over his freckled countenance and he gestured hospitably with his gun.

"Have somethin' to eat, little wan."

Cary's knee loosened. The jagged stone fell to the ground.

"Thank you, old fellow," he cried, springing to his feet. "I can't show my gratitude to you in any substantial way at present—but God bless you, just the same." He dropped down on the rock again and hid his face in his hands. Another moment and the kindhearted trooper might have been lying face downwards in the muddy ground around the spring. It had been only touch-and-go, but the man's warm Irish heart had saved him.

"Oh, that's all right, sir," O'Connell answered freely. "Sure an' I'd like to see ye get through, though I ain't the Gineral. At least, not yet," he grinned.

"There ye are, little girl," he went on, pushing the knapsack over towards Virgie with the muzzle of his carbine. "Jist help yerself—an' give yer dad some, too."

With a little cry of delight Virgie swooped down on the knapsack and explored its interior with eager hands.

"I'm much obliged, Mr. Yankee. We cert'ny do need it—bad." She tossed the tangled hair back from her eyes and looked thankfully up at this curious person who had so much food that he could really give part of it away. "Please, Mr. Yankee—won't you tell me your name?"

"Harry O'Connell, at your service, miss."

"Thank you," she bowed. "I'm very glad to meet you." Then her searching hands found something wonderful in the knapsack and she sprang up and ran with her prizes to her father.

"Look, Daddy—two biscuits! Take one. It's—it's real!"

Cary's eyes grew moist.

"Thank you, darling. Thank you." Just now the lump in his throat would not have allowed him to eat soup, let alone a rather hard biscuit, but he looked up with a laugh and waved a genial salute to the trooper, who as genially responded.

Virgie, however, had become quite single minded since she had discovered food, and with a happy sigh she raised the biscuit to her lips. Just then the sentry in the road flung up his hand with a shout.

"Look out, O'Connell! They're coming," and he clambered quickly over the wall and dropped behind it, his gun in readiness.

"What is it?" demanded the other trooper.

"Detachment of cavalry. A small one."

"But whose is it, man. Can ye not see?"

Collins, holding his hand behind him in a gesture which commanded them to stay where they were, raised his head cautiously over the wall.

"Morrison's," he answered, after a quick look, and he dropped down again out of sight.

At the sound of hoof beats and the name she remembered so well Virgie, with her biscuit all untasted, sprang up from the ground as if she would run out on the road. But her father caught her, for O'Connell had turned to them with a serious face.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'll have to trouble ye to get under cover in the woods. No argymint, sir," he said decisively, as he saw some show of resistance on Cary's part. "I'm under orders."

"Yes, yes, I know," Cary cried, impatiently, "but I want to speak to Colonel Morrison. I must speak to him. Give me a moment, man. You won't ever regret it."

"Come now—none o' that," commanded the trooper, pushing him back with the carbine across his breast. "Don't make me use force, sir. Ye'll have to go—so go quietly. And mind—no shenanigan!"

Cary stood his ground for a moment, meeting the trooper eye to eye—then turned with hanging head and walked a few steps back into the woods.

"Come, Virgie," he said, "I guess we won't get to see Colonel Morrison after all."

But Virgie, being a woman, had her own ideas about what she would or would not do. At the same moment that the trooper was forcing her father step by step back into the woods, Virgie was running madly towards the stone wall and before either of the soldiers could stop her she had clambered up on its broad top and was calling out to a man who clattered by at the head of a troop of cavalry.

"Colonel Morrison! Colonel Morrison!"



CHAPTER VIII

"Halt!"

At the sound of that piping, childish treble calling his name in so unexpected a place the officer at the head of the troop threw up his gauntleted hand and brought the detachment to a standstill in a cloud of dust.

"Hello, there," he said, turning curiously around in his saddle. "Who is it wants me?"

"It's me, Virgie!" the child cried, leaping up and down on the wall, all forgetful of her sore foot. "Come help Daddy and me—come quick!"

"Well—what on earth—"

Morrison threw out a command to his men and, wheeling his horse, spurred vigorously up to the wall where he dismounted and came up to take a closer view of the tangle haired little person dancing on one foot.

"Why—bless my soul if it isn't Virgie!" His arms opened to take her in when, suddenly, his eye fell on O'Connell, standing at attention on the other side of the wall.

"O'Connell," he said, sternly, "what is the meaning of this? Why aren't you with your detachment?"

"It isn't his fault," Virgie interposed in stout defense of the nice Yankee who carried biscuits in his knapsack. "He's under orders."

The glib use of the military term made a smile flicker across Morrison's face, but his eyes did not leave the troubled trooper.

"Whose orders?" he demanded.

"Corporal Dudley, sir," was the stammering answer.

At this moment Cary stepped forward and the two officers exchanged nods of recognition.

"Let me explain," the Confederate said. "Virgie and I were making for Richmond as rapidly as we could. Here, by this spring, we were put under arrest by a corporal and four troopers. Naturally, I presented your pass, but the corporal refused to honor it. He then left me under guard and hurried off to headquarters with the pass in his possession."

At this unwelcome news Morrison's head jerked back as if he had been struck and his lips tightened. Without the addition of another word to Cary's story he saw all the dire consequences to himself of what had been an act of the commonest humanity. Yes, in other times it would have been what any right thinking human being would have done for another in distress, but, unhappily, this was war time and the best of motives were only too often mis-read. In his mind's eye he saw the vindictive Dudley, eager for a revenge which he could not encompass any other way, laying the proof of this act before his superiors with an abundance of collateral evidence which, he knew, would condemn him before any military tribunal in the world. It mattered not what kindly impulses had guided his hand when he wrote the safeguard on the other side of the paper on which Robert E. Lee had previously placed his name, for it is not the custom of courts martial to weigh the milk of human kindness against the blood and iron of war. The good and the safety of the greater number demand the sacrifice of every man who would imperil the cause by ill considered generosity. Morrison could see that very presently he would have to answer certain stern questions.

Yet, there was a chance still that Dudley might be headed off and this whole miserable business stopped before revenge could set the inexorable wheels in motion and he whirled round on O'Connell with a sharp question:

"Which way did Dudley go?"

"Down the pike, then over the hill by the wood road, sor—makin' for headquarters," the young Irishman answered, only too glad of a chance to help his officer out of what, he saw, was a frightful situation.

"How long ago?" came back the instant query.

"Five minutes, sor. Ye cud catch him wid a horse."

"Ah," exclaimed Morrison, and he threw up his hand to his men. "Lieutenant Harris," he shouted. "Take a squad and ride to camp by the wood road. Overtake Corporal Dudley or intercept him at headquarters. Don't fail! Get him and bring him here!"

Lieutenant Harris's hand went up to his hat in ready salute and he bellowed out his orders.

"Jennings! Hewlett! Brown! Hammond! Burt! 'Bout face. Forward!" Almost before the words were out of his mouth Harris and his men were riding madly down the road in a chase, which the Lieutenant suspected, meant something more to his colonel, than merely the recovery of a safe-conduct for a Confederate officer and a little girl.

Morrison turned to Trooper O'Connell and jerked his thumb towards the road.

"Report at my quarters this evening—at nine," he said curtly. And the young Irishman, thankful to be well out of the mess, quickly clambered over the wall and disappeared though not without a soft voiced farewell from Virgie.

"Good-by, Mr. Knapsack Man," called the child. "Thank you for the biscuits."

Then Cary came forward and gripped the other's hand.

"Colonel," he said earnestly, with full appreciation of what was passing through Morrison's mind, "I hope no trouble will come of this. If I had only known the vindictiveness of this man—"

He was interrupted by a genially objecting hand and a laugh which Morrison was somehow able to make lighthearted.

"Oh, that will be all right. Harris will get him—never fear."

"And so," he said, addressing Miss Virginia, "that bad man took your pass?"

"Yes, sir. He did," Virgie answered, and caught his hand in hers. "He ran right away with it—mean old thing."

"Well, then—we'll have to write you out another one. A nice, clean, white one this time. Come on, little sweetheart. We'll do it together," and he took out a note book and pencil.

"I say, Morrison," Cary murmured, glancing apprehensively at the troopers idling in the road and very plainly interested in what the small group were doing, "do you really think you'd better—on your own account?"

Again Morrison's hand was raised in polite objection. He had taken a sporting chance when he wrote the pass which had been stolen but because he had probably lost was no reason why he shouldn't play the game out bravely to the end. So he only smiled at Virgie, who came and sat beside him, and began to write the few short sentences of his second safe-conduct. But while he wrote he was talking in low tones which the troopers in the road could not hear.

"There's a line of your pickets about three miles up the road, Cary," said he. "If I loaned you a horse, do you think Virgie could ride behind you?"

"Me?" pouted Virgie. "Why, Daddy says that when I was bornded, I came ridin' in on a stork."

Morrison burst out laughing and dropped his hand down on the small paw resting on his knee.

"Then, by St. George and the Dragon we'll send you home to Jefferson Davis on a snorting Pegasus!"

Again Cary spoke to him in warning tones, which at the same time thanked him unendingly for the kindly thought.

"You needn't trouble about the mount. Why, man," he said huskily, "you're in trouble enough, as it is! And if our lines are as close as you say they are—"

Once more the Union officer checked him.

"It isn't any trouble. Only—you'll have to be careful of your approach, even to your own lines. Those gray devils in the rifle pits up there have formed the habit of shooting first and asking questions afterwards. There you are," and he tore the leaf from his note book and handed it up with a faint smile.

The Southerner took it with a reluctant hand.

"I—I wish I could thank you—Morrison," he said in tones that shook with feeling, "but you see I—I—"

"Then please don't try. Because if you do I'll—I'll have to hold Virgie as a prisoner of war.

"Well, young one," he said to the small Miss Cary with a laugh, "did you really get something to eat?"

"Yes, sir. That is—we almost did."

"Almost?" he echoed.

"Yes, sir," came the plaintive answer. "Eve'y time we start to eat—somethin' always happens!"

"Well, well, that is hard luck," he said with a gentle squeeze of her frail body. "But I'll bet you it won't happen this time; not if a whole regiment tries to stop it."

"Come on," he suggested as he sprang to his feet and began picking up dry twigs. "You can start in and munch on those heavenly biscuits while this terrible Yankee builds the fire." Cary made a move as if to help; but Morrison checked him.

"Oh, no, Cary, just you keep on sitting still. This is no work for you. You're tired out.

"Here, Virgie, I know you want to get me some water from the spring. Please pick out the cleanest pieces of water you can and put them carefully in the coffee pot. All right. There you are. 'Tention! Carr-ee coffee pot! Right wheel! March!"

With a carefree laugh he turned away to light the little heap of twigs he had placed between two flat stones. "It's mighty considerate of my boys to leave us all these things. We'll call it the raid of Black Gum Spring.

"And here comes the little lady with the coffee pot filled just right. Now watch me pour in the good old coffee—real coffee, Virgie dear—not made from aco'ns." He settled the pot on the fire and sat back with a grin. "Oh, oh! Don't watch it," he cried, in well feigned alarm as Virgie, unwilling to believe the sight, stooped over to feast her eyes on the rich brown powder sinking into the black gulf of the pot. "If you do that it will never, never boil!"

"All right," the child agreed pathetically, and she sank wearily down against her father's knee. "I'll just pray for it to hurry up."

The two men exchanged quiet smiles and Cary murmured something in his daughter's ear.

"Oh, no, I won't," she answered, and then looked up at Morrison with a roguish light in her dark eyes. "He's only afraid I'll pray so terribly hard that the old coffee pot will boil over an' put out the fire."

Morrison, chuckling, now began to drag something out of a rear pocket. Presently, he uncorked it and held it up—a flask!

"Here, Cary," he said, holding out a cup. "Join me, won't you? Of course, you understand—in case a snake should bite us."

"Colonel Morrison," responded the Southerner, "you are certainly a man of ideas."

He waited for his foe to fill his own cup, then raised his in a toast:

"I drink to the health, sir, of you and yours. Here's hoping that some day I may take you prisoner!"

At the quizzical look of surprise in the other's face Cary's voice almost broke.

"I mean, sir, it's the only way I could ever hope to show you how much I appreciate—"

He stopped and covered his face with his hands, not a little to his daughter's alarm.

"Come, come, old chap," the Northerner said bluffly, tapping him on the shoulder. "Brace up. It's the fortunes of war, you know. One side or the other is bound to win. Perhaps—who knows—it may be your turn to-morrow. Well, sir—here goes. May it soon be over—in the way that's best and wisest for us all.

"Now, Virgie," he went on, when the toast had been drunk, "while I wash these cups suppose you go on another voyage of discovery through the magic knapsack for some sugar for the coffee."

He watched her fling herself impetuously on the knapsack. "If you find any Yankee spoons—put them under arrest. They haven't any pass like yours."

Then he turned to Cary: "Have any trouble on the road as you came along?"

The other man shook his head.

"None to speak of. We were stopped several times of course, but each time your pass let us through without delay—until we met Dudley. And now I'm worried, Colonel," he said frankly, while his eyes tried to tell the other all that he feared without putting it in words, "worried on your account. It's easy to see that the man has a grudge against you—"

"Yes, I'm afraid he has," was the thoughtful reply. "But really, Cary, you mustn't try to carry any more burdens than your own, just now. I know what you mean and what, I daresay, you'd be only too willing to do, but I can't permit it."

They were interrupted by the spectacle of Virgie standing before them with anxiously furrowed brow, a paper bag in one hand and three spoons clutched in the other.

"But Colonel Morrison," she was saying in tragic tones, "there isn't a drop of milk."

"Milk!" he cried in mock despair. "Well, dash my buttons if I didn't forget to order a cow."

"Oh, I know what to do," cried the child. Dropping her supplies and utensils she ran to the wall and climbed up.

"Hey, there, you" commanded the small general with an imperious gesture to the assembled troopers. "One of you men ride right over to camp and bring us back some milk—an' butter."

At this abrupt demand of so small a rebel on the commissary of the United States a roar of laughter went up from the troopers, though some of them had the grace to salute and so relieve the child of embarrassment.

"Virgie! Virgie!" called her father, scandalized.

"It's all right, Cary," Morrison laughed. "She's only starting in at giving orders a little earlier than most women.

"Never you mind, Miss Brigadier," he comforted. "We'll have all those luxuries next time, or when I come to see you in Richmond after the war is over. Just now we'll do the best we can. Come along."

Virgie got down from the wall and pattered up to the fire.

"Is it ready yet?" she asked with the perfect directness of seven years.

"In a minute now. Ah-hah! There she goes."

He took the pot from the fire and set it down on a rock where, presently, he brought a cupful of cold water to pour in.

"Is that to settle it?" she asked of her father.

"Yes, child—and I wish all our questions were as easily cleared up. And now—to the attack."

"Right-o. Virgie—pass the beautiful, hand painted china and let's fill up. This one for your daddy—you can put the sugar in. Only don't burn those precious fingers."

Virgie carried the steaming cup to her father and put it in his hands with shining eyes.

"This is better than our old belt supper, Daddy, isn't it?" she said, with a flirt of her tangled curls. "Anyway—it smells nicer."

She was back at the sugar bag at once, digging out spoonfuls for Morrison's coffee.

"Thank you, Miss Cary, I am indeed obliged to you. Now do sit down and eat. No, not another word till you've eaten two whole biscuits!"

For several ecstatic moments the child munched her biscuits. It had been a long time since she had eaten anything so delicious, although if those same biscuits had appeared on the Cary table a month ago they would have probably been scorned. But eager as her appetite was it did not stop the active workings of her mind and she presently was struck by an idea which tried to force itself out through a mouthful of biscuit—with the usual amusing results.

"Virginia!" admonished her father.

Morrison laughed out like a boy and slapped his knee.

"Suppose we swallow—and try again."

Virgie, thus adjured, concentrated her mind on the task—gulped, blinked, swallowed with pathetically straining eyes, and then smiled triumphantly.

"Excuse me, Daddy. I guess I wasn't very polite."

"Apology accepted. What were you going to say?"

The child looked up with a sweetly serious look in her eyes that the two men recognized as the forerunner of true womanly thought for others.

"I was only goin' to ask the Colonel if he didn't think his men out there would like some of these heavingly things to eat?" she said plaintively. "It must be terrible—jus' to look on!"

"Well, bless your little heart," the Northerner cried. "But don't you worry about the boys. They'll have theirs when they get back to camp. Go on and eat, Virgie. Stuff in another biscuit. And, look! By Jupiter. Butter!"

Evidently Trooper O'Connell during the past twenty-four hours had foraged or blarneyed most successfully for out of the knapsack which he had left behind Morrison suddenly produced a small earthenware jam jar in which was something now indubitably liquid in form but none the less sweet, yellow, appetizing butter. Pouring a little on a biscuit he held it out to her, speculating on what she would say.

The tot took it hungrily and raised it to her lips, her eyes shining and her face glowing with anticipation. Then she paused and, with a little cry of vexation over her selfishness, held out the biscuit to her father.

"Here, Daddy," she said. "You take this—because you tried to bring me somethin' good to eat yesterday."

The father threw a look at Morrison and caught Virgie to him in a swift embrace.

"No, dear," he said. "Eat your nice buttered biscuit and thank the good Lord for it. Your father will get more fun out of seeing you eat that little bit than he would out of owning a whole cellar of big stone crocks jam full. Do you know—I think when we get up to Richmond you'll have to write a letter to the Colonel—a nice long letter, thanking him for all he's done. Won't you?"

There was a pause for a moment as the child looked over at Morrison, revolving the thought in her mind.

The Union officer had passed into a sudden reverie, the hand holding his coffee cup hanging listlessly over his knee. He was thinking of another little girl, and one as dear to him as this man's child was to her father. He was wondering if the fortunes of war would ever let him see her face again or hear her voice—or feel her chubby arms around his neck. She was very, very far away—well cared for, it was true, but he knew only too well that it would need but one malignant leaden missile to make her future life as full of hardships as those which the little tot beside him was passing through to-day. So much, at least, for the ordinary chances of war—he was beginning to wonder how much had been added to these perils by the matter of the pass and whether his superiors would see the situation as it had appeared to his eyes.

Into this sad reverie Virgie's soft voice entered with a gentleness which roused but did not startle him. When she spoke, it seemed as if some subtle thought-current between their minds had put the subject of his dreams into the child's mind.

"Do you reckon," the child said, curiously, "that Gertrude is havin' her supper now?"

The Union officer looked up with eyes that mutely blessed her.

"Yes, dear, I was thinking of her—and her mother."

Again he was silent for a space, and when he spoke, his voice was dreamy, tender, as he seemed to look with unseeing eyes far into the Northland where dwelt the people of his heart.

"Do you know, Cary, this war for us, the men, may be a hell, but what is it for those we leave at home? The women! Who wait—and watch—and too often watch in vain. We have the excitement of it—the rush—the battles—and we think that ours is the harder part when, in reality, we make our loved ones' lives a deeper, blacker hell than our own. Theirs to watch and listen with the love hunger in their hearts, month in, month out and often without a word! Theirs to starve on the crusts of hope! Waiting—always waiting! Hunting the papers for the thing they dread to find; a name among the missing. A name among the dead! Good Heaven! When I think of it sometimes—" Morrison dropped his head between his clenched fists and groaned.

"Yes, yes, old fellow, I know," the other man answered, for in truth he did know, "but I want you to remember that for you the crusts of hope will some day be the bread of life—and love."

Slowly the Northerner's face came up out of his hands and he seemed to take heart again. After all, he had led a charmed life so far—perhaps the God of Battles had written his name among those who would some day go back to live the life for which the Almighty made them. God grant then that he might have for his friend this man who, in the time of his own greater grief, was unselfish enough to console him. Ah! If God would only grant that from this day on there would be no more of this hideous fighting. Morrison's eyes met the other's and he put out his hand.

Suddenly there came the sound of a shot. Another and another—then a volley, which almost at once became a continuous rattle of musketry.

The Northerner sprang to his feet. "Look! there go your pickets."

Struck dumb by this sudden return to the actualities of life the two men stood motionless, listening for every sound which might tell them what it meant. For a little while they had dreamed the dream of peace only to have it rudely shattered.

But Virgie had not followed them in their dreams, for she was an extremely practical young lady. Having seen food, real food, vanish away before her very eyes several times already she was quite prepared to see it happen again.

"There!" she said, in tones in which prophecy and resignation were oddly mingled. "Didn't I jus' know somethin' was goin' to happen!"

By this time Morrison had run to the stone wall and sprung to its top. Out in the road the troopers had mounted without waiting for command and with one accord had faced towards the firing.

"Can you see anything?" Cary called.

"Not yet," said Morrison. "I guess we came too close to your nest—and the hornets are coming out."

"Turner!" he commanded, and a trooper's hand went up, "ride up to the fork of the road. Learn what you can and report."

As the cavalryman struck his heels into his horse's sides and dashed up the road Cary put the wishes of both men into words.

"It's too near sundown for a battle. It will only be a skirmish."

"Ye-e-e-s, possibly," the Northerner assented, and he looked thoughtfully at Virgie, "but still—"

"What is it?"

"I can't send you forward now—in the face of that fire. And, for that matter, I can't send you to the rear. In five minutes this road will be glutted with cavalry and guns."

"Never mind, Morrison," the Southerner returned. "I couldn't go now—anyway."

"Why?"

Cary opened out his hands in a simple gesture. "Because, in case of trouble for you at headquarters, I'm still your prisoner." With his eyes brave and steady on the others he took the newly written pass from his breast—and tore it in pieces. "When you want me," he said, "you'll find me—here."

If there had been time for argument Morrison would have hotly protested against such self-sacrifice, but events were crowding upon them too fast. From down the road came the sound of furious galloping. Almost at once Lieutenant Harris, riding hard at the head of a troop of cavalry, swept round the curve and drew his horse upon his haunches.

"Colonel Morrison!" he shouted. "You are ordered—"

"One moment, Lieutenant," interrupted Morrison in tones so even that Cary marveled at his composure, "Did you get Corporal Dudley?"

Cary's ears ached for the answer. He knew just as well as the questioner the danger which might now be disclosed or be forever forgotten and his heart went out to the other in this moment of hideous suspense.

There was an instant of hesitation and then came the answer.

"No, sir! We tried hard but couldn't make it."

Morrison's face did not change but his hands tightened until the nails dug deep into his palms. He had played—and lost.

"Go on with your report," he said.

Harris pulled in his fretting horse and delivered his significant news.

"The Rebels are advancing in force. I was sent back to you with orders to join Major Foster at the fork and hold the road at any cost. Two light field pieces are coming to your support. Our main batteries are back there—in the woods."

"Right," said Morrison, "we go at once." Turning back to Virgie he caught her up in his arms and kissed her. "Good-by, little sweetheart. Hide under the rocks and keep close."

"Good-by, Morrison," Gary said, as they struck hands. "I can't wish you luck—but our hearts are with you as a man."

"Thanks, old fellow," said the enemy, as he sprang over the wall "It helps—God knows."

He caught at his horse's mane and threw himself into the saddle without touching the stirrup, while his voice roared out his command.

"Ready, men! Forward!"

"Good-by," shrilled Virgie in her childish treble. "Good-by, Colonel! Don't get hurt."

"Daddy!" she cried, as they crouched down in their hiding place behind the wall. "Is there going to be a—a battle?"

"Only a little one. But you won't be afraid."

A rattle of approaching wheels came from down the road, the shock of steel tires striking viciously against the stones, the cries and oaths of the drivers urging the horses forward.

"Look!" cried Cary, springing to his feet in spite of the danger in which his gray uniform placed him. "Here come the field pieces. In a minute now the dogs will begin to bark."

With a roar of wheels and a clash of harness and accouterments the guns rushed by while the child stared and stared, her big eyes almost starting out of her face.

"The dogs!" she said in wonder. "There wasn't a single dog there!"

"Another kind of dog," her father said with a meaning look. "And their teeth are very long. Ah! There they go! Over yonder on the hill—in the edge of the woods. The Yankee dogs are barking. Now listen for the answer."

Together they listened, father and daughter, with straining ears—listened for the defiant reply of those men who, being Americans, were never beaten until hunger and superior numbers forced them to the wall.

"Boom!" A great, ear-filling sound crashed over the hills and rolled, echoing, through the woods.

"That's us! That's us!" the man cried out exultantly, while he caught the child closer in his arms. "Hear our people talking, honey? Hear 'em talk!"

But overhead something was coming through the air and the child shrank down in terror—something that whined and screamed as it sped on its dreadful way and seemed like a demon out of hell searching for his prey.

"Lord a' mercy, Daddy!" the child cried out. "What's that?"

He patted her head consolingly. "Nothing at all but a shell. They sound much worse than they really are. Don't be afraid. Nothing will hurt you."

From the forks of the road the sound of volley firing grew stronger and, as if in response, the road to the Union rear now turned into a stream of living blue, with cavalry madly galloping and sweating infantry hurrying forward as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Look, Virgie, look!" her father cried, holding her head a little way above the wall. "See those bayonets shining back there across the road. A whole regiment of infantry. And they're going up against our men across an open field! By Jiminy, but those Yanks will get a mustard bath. Ah-hah!" he chortled, as a roar of musketry broke out. "I told you so! Our boys are after them. Good work! Good work!"

But again a shell passed over them and again the world was filled with that awful whining, shrieking sound.

"Daddy," the child cried, with quivering lips, but still dry eyed. "I don't like those things. I don't like'em."

"There, there, darling," he comforted as they shrank closer under the protection of the wall. "Keep down under my arm and they won't bother you."

As he spoke a twig with a fresh yellow break in it fell from a tree and struck his upturned face. He winced at the thought that the bullet might have flown a few feet lower. And meanwhile the sound of the firing came steadily closer.

"By Jove!" he murmured to himself, "it's a bigger rumpus than I thought."

This indeed was true. What had at first promised to be only a skirmish between the outposts of the two entrenched armies, now developed into a general engagement covering a space of half a mile along the line. A reconnoitering force of Federal cavalry had ridden too close to the rifle pits of the Confederates, and, as Morrison himself expressed it, "the hornets came out and began to sting."

Major Foster, commanding a larger force of cavalry, rode out in support of his reconnoitering party, and found himself opposed, not by a straggling line of Rebel pickets, but by a moving wall of tattered gray, the units of which advanced on a low-bent run, crouching behind some bush or stone, to fire, reload and advance again.

An aide raced back to the Union lines to ask for help in support of Foster's slender force of cavalry; and thus the order came to Morrison to join the detachment and hold the enemy until reinforcements could be formed and pushed to the firing line.

The delay, however, was well nigh fatal for Morrison and Major Foster, and from the point where Cary and little Virgie watched, the case of the Union horsemen seemed an evil one. True, that infantry and guns were soon advancing to their aid on a "double-quick"; yet all the advantage seemed to lie with the ragged, sharp-shooting Southerners.

The crackle of musketry increased; the dust rolled up and intermingled with the wreathes of drifting smoke, and through it came the vicious whine of leaden messengers of death.

Then, borne on the wind, came a sound that he would know till his dying day—the rebel yell. An exultant scream,—a cry of unending hate, defiance, victory!

He sprang to his feet. Off came the battered old campaign hat and unmindful that he stood there hidden in the woods and that his voice could carry only a few yards against the roar of battle, he swung it over his head: and shouted out his encouragement.

"Look! We're whipping 'em. Virgie, do you hear? We're getting them on the run. Come on, boys! Come on!"

He felt her clutch on his sleeve. With wide eyes grown darker than ever with excitement, she asked her piteous question.

"Daddy! Will they kill the Colonel?"

For a moment he could not answer. Then, with a groan he gave back his answer: "I hope not, darling. I hope not!"

Down the road a riderless horse was coming, head up and stirrups flying. As it galloped past Cary scrutinized it closely and was glad he did not recognize it. In its wake came soldiers, infantry and dismounted cavalry, firing, retreating, loading and firing again, but always retreating.

"Here come the stragglers," he cried. "We're whipping 'em! Close, darling, close. Lie down against the wall."

He crouched above her, shielding her as best he could with his body. Then, suddenly, a man in blue leaped on the wall not ten feet away. He had meant to seize the wall as a breastwork and fight from behind it, but before he dropped down he would fire one last shot. His gun came up to his shoulder—he aimed at some unseen foe and fired. But from somewhere, out of the crash of sound and the rolling powder smoke, a singing missile came and found its mark. The man in blue bent over suddenly, wavered, then toppled down inside the wall, his gun ringing on the stones as he fell.

"Daddy!" the child whispered, with ashen face, "it's the biscuit man. It's HARRY!"

Her father's hand went out instinctively to cover her eyes. "Don't look, dear! Don't look!"

The road was choked now. Cavalry and infantry, all in a mad rush for the rear, were tearing by while the two field pieces which but a moment ago had gone into action with such a deadly whirl came limping back with slashed traces and splintered wheels. With fascinated eyes the Rebel officer watched from behind his wall, while everything, even his child, was forgotten in the lust for victory. And so he did not hear the faint voice behind him that cried out in an agony of thirst and pain.