body, as if a sudden reaction had brought with it weakness. I strode with my light burden to the side of the patiently waiting roan, finding place for her sound foot within the dangling stirrup.
"You will be compelled to ride man-fashion," I announced quietly. "I doubt if you could sit the saddle in any other way; but the night will protect you from observation. Kindly assist me in every way you can."
Whether it was my calm insistence, or merely her own sense of inability to resist longer, I do not know, but, for a single instant, I felt the weight of her hand upon my shoulder, and then she had found seat in the saddle, her head bowed forward, her hands clasping the pommel, as if the pain and exertion had left her faint. Somewhere in the passage, the uplifting, the revolver had slipped from her fingers, and then unnoticed into the blackness of the road. Without uttering a word I shortened the stirrup leather to meet her requirements, fastening the one opposite back, so it could not dangle against her injured ankle. Then I wet a silk neckerchief discovered in the pocket of the jacket I wore, sousing the cloth with water from the canteen, and bound it securely about the aching, swollen foot. If she realized what was being done, she gave no sign, and only as I grasped the horse's rein, and started forward on foot, did the girl raise her head in any sign of life. She swayed unsteadily to the first movements of the horse, and I glanced back apprehensively.
"Had I better bind you into the saddle?"
"No," the voice barely audible. "I shall not fall."
There was a long pause during which I could distinguish the sound of her breath coming almost in sobs; then she asked in sudden wonderment,
"Are—are you going to walk—all the way?"
"Certainly."
Again I could plainly distinguish the sob of her rapid breathing.
"I—I thank you."
That was all, yet I cannot fitly express the comfort, the encouragement, these few falteringly spoken words brought to me. They were so unexpected, so significant of the final awakening of her more womanly nature, as to yield me instantly a fresh vision of the girl. She had recognized kindness, even in an enemy, and had proven fair-minded enough to respond generously. Whatever might occur between us hereafter, she would never be able to remember me as before. I had been considerate to her, and she had openly acknowledged the consideration, yet I retained sufficient good sense to remain quiet: to push on silently through the black night, the roan plodding steadily at my heels. I did not even flatter myself that this slight outburst of gratitude would long endure. The old, disquieting thoughts would certainly soon recur to her mind-the memory of my treachery, my intentions, and, worse than all, my unfortunate relationship with her. Yet I had enjoyed that one glimpse into the deeps of her better nature, and remained content. She was certainly not one to brood over wrongs, to fan hatred, to refuse forgiveness; I even wondered vaguely if she were not secretly glad to be saved from Calvert Dunn, even at so great a cost.
The return journey proved exceedingly slow, for the intense pain she suffered left her weak, and I durst not move faster than a walk, ever keeping watchful eye upon the dim outline of her form swaying in the saddle; yet we had not passed the branch road by as great a distance as I had supposed in our wild riding, and a comparatively few moments of steady plodding brought us to the cleft in the rocks.
"This is the road, is it not?"
She uplifted her head wearily.
"Yes; it is not far now to Fairview."
The path led downward, but not steeply, winding somewhat crazily among rocks and trees, until we finally emerged upon the smooth grass land of the lower valley. The silence here was profound, the brooding night seeming even more dense and lonely than upon the open ridge above. I felt my uncertain way forward, until the narrow road suddenly ended before a high gate. This I succeeded in opening without much difficulty, and we followed a gravelled driveway, which led circling to the front of what appeared in the gloom to be a house of considerable size. It was wrapped in darkness, no gleam of light anywhere giving evidence of occupancy. As I hesitated an instant at the foot of the steps leading upward to the front door, I felt her extended hand touch my shoulder.
"What are you going to say?—how explain my being here alone with you?"
I glanced back toward her, wishing I could read the meaning of her eyes, the expression of her face.
"I was merely intending to name myself as a Confederate officer, a friend of Lieutnant Dunn, intrusted by him to bring you here for safety, owing to his having been suddenly ordered out on special duty."
"And—and my accident?"
"Your horse stumbled in the darkness, and fell, in consequence of which I was compelled to convey you on my own."
She drew a deep breath of relief.
"Yes, that will do—that will be best now; they need never know the whole truth."
I waited for an instant, hoping she would be led to add something more, but her lips remained silent. The expression of her face could not be seen, yet I knew she was leaning slightly forward, as though seeking vainly to decipher my features in the gloom.
"I feel that you have sufficient reason to dislike me," I began, anxious to uncover, if possible, her true feeling.
"I know I have, and yet I do not," she exclaimed impulsively, and as though surprised at her own frankness. "I cannot explain why; I ought to hate you for what you have done. Yet in all this trouble you have proven yourself kind, thoughtful, considerate, and I can only feel mortified, hurt, and regretful at my present helplessness."
"It is very good of you to confess even that."
"Oh, no, there is no goodness in it. I am simply accustomed to speaking the truth under all circumstances. It is an unpleasant habit acquired in childhood. You are nothing to me, and never can be; I would do everything in my power to thwart your present purpose; I believe I could shoot you down if I were still armed, and I know I would denounce you here and now, if there was any one at hand able to make you prisoner. We remain enemies, but—but, in some unaccountable way, I cannot personally hate you."
"You mean it is the Yankee, and not the man you war against?"
"I am certainly enlisted against your cause; nor have I any real reason to respect you otherwise."
"You consider me guilty then of deliberate treachery toward you?"
Her clear, accusing eyes were apparently gazing toward my shrouded face.
"Was it anything else?"
The blunt question came so swiftly that I stood hesitating. She was so frankly outspoken, so uncompromisingly direct, as to confuse me, yet in truth scarcely permitting any time for answer.
"What was it except treachery? You came to us falsely wearing that uniform which we respect; you came pretending to be another man; you obtained entrance to the sanctity of our home under an assumed name; you deliberately tricked me into a most unhappy and compromising position. Could any right-minded woman ever forgive all this? Is what you have done justified even by Yankee ethics?"
"No," I acknowledged gravely. "All the rest might be justified by the necessities of war, but not the personal injury which I have done you. Yet I am going to make that wrong as easy to remedy as I possibly can; I am going
