vision before me of laughing eyes, and wind-blown hair, a galloping horse, and the wave of a challenging hand. She had thus swept by me on the road as I took my mother southward.
"I don't peer fer to recollect no such name, sah," replied the negro, scratching his wool thoughtfully. "I done reckon as how you got the wrong house."
"No, I reckon not," said the other drily. "Git 'long in, an' tell him Jem Taylor is yere."
The door opened wider.
"Suah, I know you now, sah. Just step right 'long in, the both of yer. I'll look after them horses. You'll fin' Massa Harwood in the dinin' room, sah."
I followed the mountaineer up the steps, and into the hall, utterly indifferent as to whether my company was desired or not. But Taylor paid no apparent heed to my presence. The interior was that of an old fashioned residence, which, as yet, had not suffered from the ravages of war. Evidences of neglect were numerous enough, yet the furniture remained intact, and the walls firm. The hall was carpeted, and the stairs leading upward were covered with a rug of brightly woven rags, yielding a touch of color. It was not yet dark, but a lamp burned on a near-by table, and a cheerful fire glowed at the farther end. A door standing open revealed what must have been the parlor, a seemingly large room in which hair-cloth chairs and sofas were dimly visible. But a brighter glow of light streamed from a room beyond, and Taylor, evidently acquainted with the house, walked directly forward, around the bulge of the stairs, and stepped within the open door. Determined to miss nothing, I was so close behind, that my quick eyes caught what I believed to be a swift signal of warning to the man within. This, however, was an impression born from my own suspicion, rather than any real movement, for Taylor took but a single step across the threshold, and stopped, leaning on his gun. Behind him, standing in the open door, I had full glimpse of the interior.
There were two lights—one hanging above the table, the other on a sideboard to the right. The room itself was panelled in dark wood, the two windows heavily draped with hanging curtains, a few pictures decorating the walls. There was a fire-place, with a grate fire smouldering, and over it a pair of crossed swords and an old powder horn. The single occupant sat upright, before him the remnants of a light repast, his hand toying with a spoon, and his eyes shifting from Taylor's face to that of mine. He was heavily built and broad of shoulder, the face, illumined by the hanging lamp, strong and masterful, the jaw prominent, the forehead broad, the nose roman. It would have been a hard face, but for a gleam of good humor in the eyes, and the softening effect of gray hair, and a gray moustache. The man had aged greatly, yet I recognized him instantly, my heart throbbing with the possibility that I also might be remembered. Yet surely there was no gleam of recollection in the eyes that surveyed me—and why should there be? I had been an uninteresting lad of fifteen when we last met. This knowledge gave me courage to meet that searching glance, and to lift my hand in the salute due to an officer of rank.
"Ah!" said Harwood in deep voice, "a soldier from the valley?"
"Yes, sir," respectfully, "the Sixty-fifth Virginia."
"Oh, yes; there was a company of mountainmen from Covington way in that command. Daniels your captain?"
"Yes, sir."
"Deserter?"
"No, sir; on thirty days' furlough."
"Oh, indeed! so 'old Jack' thinks he has plenty of time, and can let part of his army go home, does he? Well, that's his business, of course. How does it happen you wear artillery uniform?"
Expecting the question I answered unhesitatingly.
"They'd lost so many gunners, some of us were detailed to help. Recruits are coming in now."
"What was your battery?"
"Staunton Horse Artillery, sir."
"Stationed?"
"At Front Royal—that was our winter camp."
He nodded, tapping his spoon against the table, favorably impressed by my prompt replies. His keen eyes sought the face of the silent mountaineer.
"You know this man, Taylor?"
"Wal, I can't exactly say thet I dew, Major," he said drawlingly, shifting his feet uneasily. "He wus sorter wished on me, an' as he wus bound this way, I reckoned as how it wus best fer us to ride 'long together. He says he's a Cowan, frum over on Buffalo Crick."
"A Cowan!—you mean—"
"No, he don't claim ter be none o' ol' Ned's brood—his mar's a widder woman. They ain't no kin, I reckon."
Whatever thoughts might have been in Major Harwood's mind were concealed by an impassive face, as he sat there for a moment in silence, gazing at the two of us.
"No doubt you did what you believed to be best, Taylor," he said at last quietly. "We will talk it over later. You are both hungry enough to eat, I suppose? Draw up some chairs, and Sam will find something. No objection to remaining here over night, Cowan?"
"I'd be glad to get on, sir, but, my horse is about used up. The roads have been hard, and we have traveled rapidly."
"Well, there is plenty of room, and you are welcome. This house," he explained, "belongs to a friend of mine, who had to leave the country—too Yankee for his neighbors. I find it rather convenient at times. Ah, Sam, that rasher of bacon looks prime—I'll try some myself."
The three of us talked upon many subjects, although Taylor said little, except when directly addressed, and I noted that few references were made to the war. Occasionally Harwood would carelessly, interject a question relating to Jackson, but I remained ever on guard, exhibiting a lack of information such as was natural to a soldier in the ranks, and thus more and more disarmed suspicion. I apparently knew little beyond the disposition of my own battery, and the fact that the main camp was still at Front Royal, engaged in constant drills. In return I ventured to question my host on the condition of things in Green Briar, but made no attempt to learn the number of troops in the region. That Harwood was in the Federal service I had no doubt, although he was not in uniform, and, if this was true, then it must be also a fact that Taylor was a Union spy. The meeting here had not been by chance, although a mystery involved the hidden reason why I, a known Confederate soldier, had been encouraged to accompany the mountaineer to this secret rendezvous. What could be Taylor's object in bringing me there to meet Harwood? Various theories flitted through my mind, as I sat there, endeavoring to carry on my share of conversation, but none wholly satisfied my judgment. At last the meal ended, and the Major pushed back his chair, and motioned for Sam to clear the table.
"You two men are tired out," he said genially, "and you had better turn in, and get a good night's sleep. We'll all of us ride on into Green Briar to-morrow. I'll talk with you a minute Taylor in the parlor before you go; but Cowan does not need to wait. Help yourselves to the tobacco. Oh, Sam!"
"Yes, Major."
"Show this soldier up to the back bedroom, and see he has everything he needs."
"Yes, sah."
It was clearly apparent that Harwood desired a private word with Taylor, and so, after deliberately filling my pipe, I rose to my feet, stretching sleepily. The black returned with a small lamp in his hand, and led the way up the broad stairs. My last backward glance through the open door revealed the two sitting just as I had left them, except that Harwood was
