The Union forces stationed at Snagtown did not remain there many days after the event related in the last chapter. Diggs was paroled, and the regiments ordered into Winter quarters at the Junction. The retirement of the Union forces was followed by predatory incursions of the Confederates, who were encamped just across the Twin Mountains. Small parties on foraging expeditions frequently crossed the latter, and greatly harassed the citizens in and around Snagtown.

Since the last battle of Snagtown and the Confederate defeat, the peace and quiet of the Tompkins mansion was broken. Mrs. Tompkins openly and warmly avowed her principles, and Mr. Tompkins, old as he was, had almost decided to enlist in the ranks of the Union army and fight for his country.

Irene could range herself with neither party; her sympathies were too equally divided.

"To think," said Mrs. Tompkins to Irene, in her husband's presence, "that the Yankees, not content with killing poor, harmless Joe, should attempt to murder Diggs in cold blood!"

"How unfair it is," said Mr. Tompkins, "for you to charge the soldiers, who are fighting for our country, with what was purely a mistake in one case, and what, in the other, was the result of laws which have existed in all armies since military law was established."

"Don't say our country," said Mrs. Tompkins, bitterly. "They are fighting for your cold, frozen North, not for my sunny South, which they are trying to desolate and destroy. Sooner than see them victorious, I would willingly follow both my sons to the grave."

Before Mr. Tompkins could reply, Irene interrupted the discussion.

"Oh, father, mother, do not talk about this dreadful war. It has brought us misery enough; let it not ruin our home. It is all wrong—wrong on both sides—and the world will one day say so. The Nation is a great family, and if members of that family are in arms against each other, is it any credit to either—can it matter which side is defeated? I know nothing about either side, but I know it is nothing to take pride or pleasure in. Rather let us pray for its ending, than rejoice or sorrow over triumph or defeat."

Mrs. Tompkins went sobbing from the room, and the planter went out and seated himself beneath his favorite maple, in his rustic chair. His face was clouded. A barrier was gradually rising between himself and his wife—the wife whose love had blessed his youth and his manhood, the wife whose estrangement he had never dreamed of, between whom and himself he had thought no obstacle, material or immaterial, could ever come.

To no one was this sad change more painful than Irene. Left alone in the great, silent room, her heart swelled with pain, her eyes grew dim. Clouds were rising thick and fast about her life; it seemed to her that no ray of light could ever pierce their darkness. She could not stay in the house, it seemed so cold and empty, and she went out, walking almost mechanically from the garden to the high road leading past the house.

The road was very pleasant this Autumn evening; great oaks grew on either side, their brown leaves rustling musically overhead. Irene followed it to the grave-yard, and, like one treading an accustomed path, made her way between the grass-grown graves and paused by the side of a new-made mound.

"Poor Joe!" she sighed. "Your life so sad, your death so terrible and swift. No home, no friends, no hope on earth! Then why should I mourn for you?"

As with soft fingers, the evening air touched her aching eyes, and the evening stillness fell like balm on her aching heart; but on the stillness suddenly fell the sound of horses' feet. She started from the grave. The tramp of hoofs was approaching. What could it mean? Alarmed, she turned to fly. She had caught a glimpse of a horseman in gray uniform, and she had taken but a few swift steps toward her home, when the horseman galloped down the forest path and drew rein at her side.

"Stop, Irene, it is I," said a familiar voice, and the rider sprang from the saddle and stood before her.

"Oleah!" she exclaimed, in joyous surprise. "How you did frighten me!"

"You should not be out at this hour alone," said Oleah. "Where are you going, Irene?"

"I am going home," she said.

"Well, you need be in no hurry to leave me. It is not often you see me Irene."

"Leave you? Cannot you come with me?" her lovely gray eyes full with entreaty.

"No," he answered, his head shaking sadly and his lips tremulous with emotion. "When last I was beneath the roof I met an enemy—"

"Oleah," she said sadly, "I wish that I had never been taken beneath that roof to bring discord between you and your only brother."

"A brother once," he cried bitterly; "a brother once, whom I loved—never loved as brother loved before. But now he has turned that love to hate. He is the enemy of my country, the enemy of my happiness, the destroyer of all my heart holds dear. Brother! Harp no longer on that word. I am not his brother, nor yours. Here, in the face of heaven, I tell you, you must choose. I will not have friendship, or your sisterly affection. Tell me you cannot love me, and I will leave you and my home forever. Tell me! I must and will know my fate now!"

"How hard you make it for me!" she cried. "Do you not see, can you not understand, that you ask impossibilities of me?"

"Irene," he said, in his low, deep, passionate tones, "you cannot say the words that will send me from you. My life is in danger here. Every moment that I stand by your side, holding your little, trembling hand in mine, increases my danger. We must go. I will never again leave you till you are my wife."

"Oh, heavens, Oleah! What is it that you mean?"

"I shall take you to my camp, and our chaplain shall marry us. Come, we have no time to lose."

"Oleah!" she cried, in such a tone, so firm and sharp, that he paused involuntarily. "Think what it is you would have me do. Think of the disgrace, the anxiety, the suffering, you would cause!"

"There cannot be disgrace for you, when your husband is by your side; and, as to the anxiety of my parents, theirs can be no greater than mine has been. My father cares not how much misery I and mine may undergo; need I care if a few gray hairs are added to his head? My love, my darling, listen! That old Yankee hunter, Dan Martin, is in the woods, his rifle is certain death five hundred yards away; and every moment I stand here, I do so at the peril of my life."

"Then, dear Oleah, go! Leave me, and go!"

"I came for you and I will not go alone."

"I can not, can not—"

He seized her in his arms and attempted to place her on his horse.

"Oh, let me go!" she cried. "I don't love you, no, not even as a sister! Now, let me go!"

Oleah uttered a sharp whistle and four horsemen, dressed in gray, galloped to his side and dismounted.

"Help me," said Oleah, briefly.

The next moment Irene was on the charger, her determined lover holding her before him. They dashed through the dark woods like the wind, the four cavalrymen following closely after.

Irene resisted and implored in vain. From the moment his strong arms closed round her, Oleah had spoken no word except to urge on his horse. Then she uttered shriek after shriek, which only died out in the great forest as the little cavalcade thundered on.

Mr. Tompkins was still sitting in his rustic seat, beneath his favorite maple, as the sun sank behind the Western hills. He was thinking, and his clouded brow told that his thoughts were far from pleasant. For twenty-five years he and his wife had lived together, and never before had the lightest word or deed disturbed their perfect harmony, but now the breach, that had divided brothers, yawned between husband and wife; he must either sacrifice his principles or lose the love of his wife.

The sun had set, and the planter felt the chill of the evening air. He rose with a sigh and was turning to go toward the house, when he observed a negro, hatless and breathless, running in at the front gate.

"What is the matter, Job?" he asked, as the black paused breathless in front of his master.

"Why, marster—oh! it am too awful to tell all at once, unless you are prepared for it," said the darkey.

"What is it? I am prepared for anything. Tell me, what is the matter?" demanded the planter.

"Oh, marster, I had been to town and was comin' home froo de woods. I went that way afoot, kase the seceshers might a kotch me, seein' as de road is full of 'em all the time. An' Jim Crow, one of Mr. Glaze's niggers, told—told me as how they jes' hung up a nigger whenever they could find him. Jim told me that over on tother side o' mountains they had de woods hangin' full of niggers. Well, you see, hearin' all dem stories I was afraid to go on hossback de roadway, when I went arter de mail, but goes afoot froo de woods."

"Well, go on now, and tell what it was you saw and what is the matter," said the planter growing impatient.

"Well, marster, I had been to de post-office and brought you these papers and dis letter," producing them, "and was on my way home froo de woods, when I hears an awful thumpin' and thunderin' o' hosses feet comin' down the wood path, that leads in the direction o' Twin Mountains. I think, may be, its seceshers comin' arter dis yer nigger an' I gits behind a big tree dat had jist been blown down not berry long ago, an' watches. I knowed it warn't no use for dis chile to 'tempt to run, kase dey would cotch 'im shua."

Job paused for breath, and the planter waited in silence, knowing that he would comprehend the meaning of Job sooner by letting him tell his story in his own way.

"Well, pretty soon I sees five seceshers on hossback, comin' just as fast as dere hosses could go froo de woods. An' de one what was afore de others had a woman, carrin' her like she was a baby. Just as dey got in front ob me I see dat de woman was fighting an' tryin' to git away. She hollered, 'Oh! I won't go, I won't go!' an' den I recognize dat it was my Miss Irene, an' dat dey were carrin' her off. I knowed her dress, I knowed her har, an' all de time she scream I knowed it was her. Den I jist wait till dey git by an' run ebery step home."

"Oh, pshaw, Job, what an old idiot you are!" said the planter, with a laugh. "You had almost frightened me. It was not Miss Irene."

"Oh, marster, it war," persisted Job.

"I just left Miss Irene in the house."

"But, marster, you is mistaken. I tell you it war her. I know for shua!"

At this moment Irene's waiting-maid was crossing the lawn. Mr. Tompkins called to her:

"Maggie, is your mistress in her room?"

"No, sir, she went down the road about an hour ago."

The planter fell back in his chair, as though he had been struck a blow, and buried his face in his hands, while the terrified maid hastened into the house to spread the news.

Mrs. Tompkins hurried out on the lawn, where half a dozen blacks had already gathered about their master.

"Oh, what shall we do? what shall we do?" she cried, all her patriotic fervor swallowed up in terror. "Maggie run to her room and see if she is not there."

"No, missus, I have just been to see, an' she is gone."

"Oh, my poor Irene! In the power of the mountain guerillas! What must be done?"

"Be calm, Camille," said the planter, "we will immediately plan a pursuit and rescue her."

The overseer aroused the neighbors, but it was quite dark before they had gathered on the lawn in front of the mansion.

Twenty men, black and white, were chosen, and, with Mr. Tompkins at their head, they went down the road into the dark forest.

When morning dawned no trace of the missing girl had been found, and all the day passed in fruitless search.

The exhausted men were assembled in the road in front of Mr. Tompkins' house, arranging what should be done the next day, when down the hill came a troop of Union scouts, headed by no less a personage than Uncle Dan himself.

"Well, what's the matter here?" asked Uncle Dan in astonishment halting his party.

Mr. Tompkins told him what had happened.

"Thunder! Jehoshaphat! Ye don't say so?" were the frequent interjections of the old scout during the brief narration.

"Well, if that don't beat all creation, you may call me a skunk," said the old man at the conclusion. "We chaps are jist after sich sorry cusses, as them what carried off the gal; but we are tired out, hevin' been in the saddle ever since daylight and two scrimmages throwed in; so, ye see, we'll have to camp for the night; but we'll have that gal afore the sun circles this earth again."

"There is plenty room for all in the house, and you are welcome to it," said Mr. Tompkins.

"We'd ruther hev yer barn," said Uncle Dan. "We don't care about sleeping in houses, seein' we don't seldom git to sleep in one, besides we'd rather be near our hosses."

The efficient aid of the old scout having been secured, Mr. Tompkins' party dispersed, and the scouts, forty-one in number, were soon in the barn, their horses being stabled with quantities of corn and hay before them; then bright camp-fires were built in the barn-yard. The planter told them to take whatever they required, and soldiers seldom need a second hint of that kind. That night they fared sumptuously.

This scouting party was under the immediate command of Uncle Dan. They were all experienced scouts, their rifles were of the very best make, and each was considered a marksman. Uncle Dan placed a careful guard about the premises, and then, while all the men not on duty lay wrapped in their blankets sleeping quietly on the fresh, sweet hay, he sat by the side of a smouldering camp-fire, under a large oak tree, smoking a short black pipe and wrapped in thought.

A hand was laid on his shoulder. Supposing it to be one of his men, he glanced up at the person by his side. His astonishment can better be imagined than described, when he recognized the mysterious black, who had frustrated him in the woods during the retreat from Snagtown.

That copper-face, the grizzled hair, the marvelous, bright, eyes, were not to be mistaken. It was Yellow Steve.

Uncle Dan's astonishment for a moment held him dumb. How could that man have passed the line of pickets? Gaining his voice after a few moments, he said:

"Well, I must say you are a bold 'un. I would like to know how you passed the pickets?"

"Pickets, sir?" said the stranger, seating himself by the camp-fire opposite the old scout, "are very useful on ordinary occasions, but I have spent the most of my life in hiding, in avoiding guards, in running for my life, and consequently have become very expert in the business."

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

"I am called Yellow Steve. You are to start to-morrow in search of the young lady who was abducted?"

"How did you learn that? How did you learn that any lady was abducted?"

"That, sir, is a part of my profession. I learn things by means which ordinary mortals would never dream of. I came here to give you information that will lead to the discovery of the young lady you are in search of."

"What do you know of her?" asked the old scout.

"She is at the foot of the Twin Mountains, confined in the cabin you and Crazy Joe occupied for so many years. There is only ten men to guard her. She is there to-night. I saw her to-day when she saw me not. What is more, I know she will be there to-morrow. Then she is to be removed from there."

"Are you laying a trap to catch us?" asked the old man sternly.

"I am telling you heaven's own truth. Now I have performed my errand, I will go."

Before the old scout could reply, the mysterious messenger rose and stole silently away in the darkness. He waited to hear the picket challenge him, but no challenge came.