have pulled through."
"Maybe," the tone decidedly provoking, "but I reckon you don't know Billie."
She began to gather up her hair, coiling the strands about her head carelessly, and I watched the simple operation, all the life gone out of me, unable to decide what to do. It was useless to go back; almost equally useless to go forward. I had no information to take into our lines of any value, and had failed utterly in my efforts to intercept the important despatches for Beauregard. The knowledge of my mistake stung me bitterly, yet I could blame no one for the failure except myself. The apparent carelessness of the girl puzzled me--why should she be so completely at her ease in this adventure? Only at the first had she exhibited the slightest excitement. This seemed hardly natural--alone, thus suddenly attacked by a stranger, an enemy, and openly threatened.
"You seem perfectly contented," I said. "Are you not frightened?"
"Frightened!" and she paused in her hair-dressing to bend slightly forward so as to look into my shadowed face. "Why, of course not; why should I be?"
"But I am a stranger to you--a Yank. You are on the other side, are you not?"
"Oh, of course," her lips revealing again the white teeth. "But I don't think all Yankees are demons. I don't believe you are. I like your voice. You see, I was educated in the North, and so am not prejudiced. Please won't you take off your hat, just for a minute?"
I did so, almost mechanically, not even realizing why she asked, until she bent forward, her eyes on my face.
"No, I am not frightened with you. I was just a little, at first, of course, but not now. You look as though you would fight too, but not with a woman." She stopped with an odd little shrug of the shoulders. "What do you expect me to do--sit here all night?"
I looked about into the darkness, suddenly recalled to the absurdity of our situation by this question. The stars were glittering overhead, yielding a dim light, yet nothing around us afforded any guess as to where we were. The pony stood with drooping head, his flanks still heaving from his late run. To the right the ground appeared open and level, a cultivated field, while upon the other side was a sharp rise of land covered with brush. It was a lonely, silent spot, and my eyes turned back inquiringly to my companion.
"Why, no," I replied rather foolishly. "But I confess I am all at sea just now; where are we?"
It seemed very easy for her to laugh, and evidently my confession was amusing.
"You must pardon me," she excused herself, "but I thought you were a scout."
"I am," vexed at her propensity to poke fun. "I have been detailed for that service for more than two years. Moreover, I was a good enough scout to pass within the lines of your army to-night, and to travel the whole length of your camp--"
"And then get lost an hour later," she interrupted archly. "Tell me, do you know the points of the compass?"
"Certainly; that is north, and this road runs west, but I have no recollection of it. What puzzled me was our failure to cross the river."
"Oh," with a quick glance toward me. "That is easily explained; we turned the corner of the bluff instead. This is the old road to Jonesboro, and has been used very little since the new road was opened. I chose it because I thought I would be less likely to meet with any chance travellers."
I began to comprehend more clearly where we were. The extreme right of the position held by our army would be, at least, ten miles east, and the Confederate left scarcely nearer. Beauregard was off in here somewhere,--at Bird's Ferry according to our camp reports the evening previous. This knowledge prompted me to ask,
"Which way is the river?"
"To the right about three miles."
"And Bird's Ferry?"
I could not be certain she smiled, yet I thought so.
"Yonder," pointing. "The river curves to the south, and this road comes down to it at Jonesboro; there is a bridge there. The ferry is fifteen miles farther up."
The apparent innocence of her answer completely disarmed me. Indeed these facts were exactly as I remembered them now that I had our present position in mind. The peculiar winding course of the river would leave me nearer our lines at Jonesboro than where we then were. Indeed foraging parties were covering much of the territory between, and it was the nearest point where I could cross the stream otherwise than by swimming.
"Are you going to Jonesboro?" I asked.
She nodded silently.
"Then may I ride that far with you?" I asked, rather doubtful of what she would say to such a request. "Of course you will be aiding the enemy, for I expect to discover some of our troops in that neighborhood."
"How can I help myself?" banteringly. "You are a man, and armed. Practically I am your prisoner."
"Oh, I don't want you to feel that way toward me. I have acted as a gentleman, have I not, ever since I understood?"
"You certainly have, and I am not ungrateful. Then you do not order me to take you; you merely ask if I will?"
"That is all."
"And that sounds so much better, I think. I don't mind your being a Yankee if you continue to act that way. Shall I drive?"
"If you will; you know the road, and the tricks of the pony."
She laughed again, gathering up the reins, and reaching down after the whip. At the first movement the little animal broke into a brisk trot as though he understood his driver.
CHAPTER IV
THE COMING OF DAWN
The road was rough, apparently little travelled, and our lively passage over it not greatly conducive to conversation. Besides I hardly knew what to say. The consciousness of total failure in all my plans, and the knowledge that I would be received at headquarters in anything but honor, weighed heavily upon me, yet this depression did not seal my lips half as much as the personality of the young woman at my side. Pleasant and free as her manner had been, yet I was clearly made to realize there was a distinct limit to any familiarity. I could not define the feeling, but it had taken possession of me, and I knew the slightest overstepping of the boundaries would result in trouble. We were neither enemies nor friends; merely acquaintances under a temporary flag of truce. No doubt, trusting me as an honorable soldier, even though wearing an enemy's uniform, she was almost glad to have my protection along this lonely road, but, when the time came to part, she would be equally relieved to have me go. I was nothing to her; if ever remembered again it would be merely to laugh over my discomfiture in mistaking her for another. It hurt my pride to think this, to thus realize her complete indifference. She was a young woman, and I a young man, and nothing in my nature made surrender easy. I desired, at least, to leave behind me some different impression of my own personality. I was not a fool, nor a failure, and
