horses lifted their heads, their wet nostrils dripping, and we rode up the opposite bank, noticing a star or two peeping shyly out from among the ragged clouds. The road uplifted somewhat sharply, but there were comparatively level reaches along which we galloped, riding closely side by side, so that I could feel the touch of her skirt against my leg. The faint gleam of the stars afforded me a slight glimpse of my companion sitting her horse easily, her hair blowing back beneath the rim of a coquettish hat, the soft oval of her face barely taking shape in the gloom. She was gazing directly ahead, apparently utterly unconscious of my near presence, every thought concentrated elsewhere. When was the end to come? Why was it I could not muster sufficient courage to speak, could not even determine what it was I desired to say? Surely I was not afraid of this helpless, slender girl. If I had done wrong it was for the cause of my country, and I had nothing now to fear except her anger. Why should I greatly care for that? Why should I shrink from revealment as a slave from the lash? Suddenly she brought the end upon herself, reining up her mare so sharply that, when I also came to a halt, we were facing each other, my horse rearing from the heavy pressure on his bit.
"What is it? Did you see something?"
"Nothing but that dead pine yonder," pointing toward the left. "We have ridden beyond the cut-off."
"Beyond—"
"Yes, a quarter of a mile beyond. What can be the matter with you to-night? Have you forgotten the way to your own home?"
There was a vague touch of suspicion in the voice, and she was leaning forward evidently striving in vain to distinguish my features in the darkness. An instant I hesitated, no satisfactory excuse coming to my lips. She touched her mare lightly with the whip, forcing her forward.
"Why does it take you so long to answer? You are not usually so dumb."
"I was surprised at having ridden beyond the turn; I—I must have been dreaming," I ventured, still striving to retard the inevitable exposure. But by now she had become convinced that something was wrong; had grown alarmed, indignant. I heard the sharp indrawing of her breath, and marked the uplifting of her hand as if to shade her eyes.
"You—you are not Calvert Dunn," she ejaculated swiftly. "Your voice is unlike his."
I stared at her, my lips dry, my tongue useless, even reeling myself tremble in the saddle.
"Tell me the truth! Who—who are you?" The girl's voice faltered and broke, her hands pulling so hard on the reins as to cause her restless mare to back away.
I was compelled to speak now, rapidly, my voice full of a sympathy and earnestness I made no effort to conceal. She appealed to me; outside her unfortunate situation, merely as a woman she appealed. Even the bravery with which she faced me, sitting there straight and slender in the saddle, was pathetic.
"Don't draw back," I said quickly. "Don't be afraid. Nothing will harm you. I pledge you the word and honor of a soldier that no unfriendly hand shall touch you, no word be spoken to which you need object. Only listen and I will explain all. It is true I am not Lieutenant Dunn, but you are personally as safe with me as you would be riding this road with him. I mean to take you to his people at Fairview, and leave you there entirely unharmed by this night's adventure."
"But—but who are you?"
"A soldier left wounded on the field, who, seeking to escape from capture, was compelled to assume this uniform."
"A—Yankee?" the question barely audible, yet the low voice expressive of intense horror.
"Yes, as you use the term," I admitted, yet even then scarcely comprehending what the word signified to her. "I am from the West, but belong to the Federal army."
Her figure seemed to sink down into the saddle, her head drooping forward.
"Are you so bitterly prejudiced as to believe all Northerners are unworthy? Can you not forget the color of the uniform for a single hour, and trust me to act justly?"
She straightened up instantly, gripping the saddle pommel, and staring toward me through the night.
"But—but," she sobbed, the full bewildering horror of it echoing in her voice. "We have been married! O Father of mercy—married to a Yankee!"
I put my hand out upon the bit of her mare, leaning toward her in my eagerness to explain, determined to finish before she could again interrupt. Better a confession of the whole truth now, except that I durst not trust her with the news I hoped to bear across the river.
"I beg you listen to me; listen to all I have to say. If you fully comprehend the situation you may not condemn me so completely. I know I have done wrong have been guilty of a cowardly act—yet it is not beyond remedy, and I have been driven to it for the preservation of life. Believe me when I say that I respect you; that I will treat you with all honor; only hear what I have to say in my own defence. To be a Federal soldier is not a crime, nor evidence of a debased manhood. That we should differ in time of war does not mean that all which is gentlemanly should be enrolled upon the one side. There are true, honest, upright men wearing both uniforms—the difference between us is political. I am in the Northern army because I am a Northerner, because I have been educated in the principles of that section of the country, and have been called upon to fight to sustain them. Surely you cannot despise me for that alone. That would not be just, nor womanly. I am going to appeal to you simply as a man, not as a partisan. Forget that I was born north, and you south of Mason and Dixon's line, and judge my actions from a fairer standard. Can you do this?"
She did not move nor answer, yet her very silence gave me renewed courage.
"I know you can and will. You have the face and eyes of a woman to be trusted, to be confided in—"
"How do you know that?"
"Because I saw you yesterday, while you were talking with the negro Joe, in the tool-shed."
"You—you were there?—you overheard?"
"Yes," I confessed unwillingly, for her tone was a rebuke. "But I was not an eavesdropper from choice. I was there in concealment, and had fallen asleep. Your voices awoke me."
I knew she was staring toward me, still dazed by the discovery of who I was, unable to decide what to do or say, although her feature, were utterly indistinguishable. At last she seemed to gain sufficient control of her breath to falter,
"You may go on; I—I will listen."
"It is only a short story. I was a member of Reynolds's battery, having enlisted from Illinois. I have been in the service nearly two years. During that last battle yonder, your soldiers charged and captured our guns. In the struggle I was struck in the side by a splinter, and rendered unconscious by a blow on the head. I chanced to fall beneath the cannon, which had been so demolished as to be rendered useless, and lay there like one dead until late at night. When consciousness returned I realized the horrors of my situation, as well as the certainty of capture and imprisonment if I remained there until daylight. Finding myself able to move, I crawled to a near-by stream, attended as best I could to my wounds, and, remembering a vague glimpse of your house down the valley, caught as our battery went forward into action, I naturally turned in that direction, seeking for some place of concealment until another night-fall."
She did not change her posture, yet as I paused I could plainly hear her rapid breathing.
"It was a
