This premeditated insult, which Brennan had evidently despatched broadcast in hope that through some unknown channel it might reach me, changed my entire relationship with the man. Heretofore, while feeling deep resentment toward him, I yet was strongly inclined to avoid any personal meeting. Fear had nothing whatever to do with this shrinking on my part, nor would I have deliberately avoided him, yet as the husband of Edith Brennan I realized that if he suffered seriously at my hands it must for ever separate us. I felt more and more deeply the shame of loving the wife of another, and certainly I could never bring myself to advertise her as in any way the cause of so disgraceful a brawl. Far better was it for me to suffer in silence any taunts and degradations he chose to place upon me. Surely I loved her well enough to remain patient for her sake.

But now all this had been changed by a word. His deliberate attempt to soil my reputation among officers of my own corps left me no choice but that of a resort to arms. I have never felt that Brennan was at heart a bad man; he was hard, stern, revengeful, yet I have no doubt under different circumstances I might even have valued him highly as a comrade or a friend. There is no demon like jealousy; and his early distrust of me, fostered by that mad disease, had apparently warped his entire nature. Yet not even for love could I consent to leave my honor undefended, and after those hateful words there could be no rest for me until our differences were settled by the stern arbitrament of the naked blade. All prudence to the winds, no opportunity of meeting him should now be cast aside.

I decided this carefully before falling asleep, and had almost determined upon seeking release from immediate duty that I might hunt him out even within the fancied security of his own camp. This latter plan, however, was instantly halted by those events which crowded swiftly upon me. The coming day was barely gray in the east when I was awakened by a heavy pounding upon the door. A smart-looking orderly stood without.

“Captain Wayne?” he asked.

“That is my name. What have you, my man?”

“Compliments of Colonel Maitland, chief of staff, sir,” he said, handing me a folded paper.

I opened it eagerly, for I was more than ready to welcome any occurrence which would help to change the tenor of my thought.

“Dear Wayne:” the private note read, “Believing you would be glad to have the detail, I have just arranged to send you at once upon some active service. Please report at these quarters immediately, fully equipped for the field.”

Glad! It was the very medicine I most needed, and within twenty minutes of my receipt of this communication I was with Maitland, thanking him warmly for his thoughtfulness.

“Not another word, Wayne,” he insisted. “It is not much, a mere scouting detail over neutral territory, and will probably prove dull enough. I only hope it may help to divert your mind a trifle. Now listen—you are to proceed with twenty mounted men of the escort west as far as the foot-hills, and are expected to note carefully three things: First, the condition of forage for the sustenance of a wagon train; second, what forces of Federal troops, if any, are along the Honeywell; and third, the gathering of all information obtainable as to the reported consolidation of guerillas for purposes of plunder between the lines. If time suffice, you might cross over into the valley of the Cowskin and learn the condition of forage there as well. A guide will accompany your party, and you are to avoid contact with the enemy as far as possible. Your men carry five days' rations. You understand fully?”

“I do, sir; I presume I am to start at once?”

“Your squad, under command of Sergeant Ebers, is already waiting outside.”

I found them a sturdy looking lot, but, as they composed a portion of the commander's personal guard, somewhat better attired than I was accustomed to seeing Confederate soldiers. I possessed a field officer's prejudice relative to escort soldiery, yet their equipment looked well, they sat their horses easily, and I could find nothing worthy of criticism. I should have preferred riding at the head of men from my old troop, but in all probability we would none of us be called upon to draw a sabre.

“Are you all ready, Sergeant?” I asked of the rather heavy-weight German who stood fronting me, his broad, red face as impassive as though carved from stone.

“Ve vos, Captain.”

“Where is the guide?”

“Dot is him, mit der mule, ain't it?” he answered, pointing with one huge hand down the road.

“Very well, we will pick him up then as we go.” I cared so little as to whether or not he accompanied us at all, that we had advanced some distance before the thought of him again occurred to me. I knew the gentry fairly well, and had experienced in the past so many evidences of their stupidity, if not actual disloyalty, as to prefer my own knowledge of the country to theirs. My thought, indeed, for several miles was not at all with the little party of troopers jogging steadily at my heels, nor, in truth, was it greatly concerned with the fate of the expedition. That was but service routine, and I rode forward carelessly enough, never once dreaming that every hour of progress was bearing me toward the most important adventure of my life. So I feel we constantly advance into the future; and it is well that we do not know, for few would possess the necessary courage if beforehand we might perceive the sorrows and the dangers.

Outside my military duties I had but one thought in those days—Edith Brennan. The great struggle was rapidly drawing to its close; hope of future military preferment could no longer inspire a Confederate soldier, for we realized fully we were battling in a lost cause. All ambition which I might otherwise have experienced was therefore concentrated by this fate upon the woman I loved. And how earnestly I endeavored not to love her; how I sought to stifle such feeling, to remain true to what I deemed my highest duty to her and to my own honor! And yet she remained my constant dream. I thought of her now as I rode into the west. Somewhere out yonder, amid those distant blue hills—ay! even within the very zone of my present duty—it was possible she yet waited for the war to cease. I wished in my heart I might again meet her, and then roundly denounced myself as a cur for having such a desire. Yet again and again would the fond hope recur, surging up unbidden into my brain as I rode steadily forward, oblivious of both distance and pace, the sinking sun full in my eyes, yet utterly forgetful of the hoof-beats pounding along behind me. It was the German sergeant who recalled me to the responsibilities of command.

“Captain,” he exclaimed apologetically, riding up to my side, and wiping his round perspiring face with great energy, “ve are riding too hard, ain't ve? Mein Gott, but der horses vill give out ontirely, already.”

“Is that so?” I asked in surprise at his words. A single swift glance around convinced me he was correct, for the mounts were exceedingly soft, and already looked nearly played out from our sharp pace. “Very well, Ebers, we will halt here.”

With a sigh of relief he drew back, and as he did so my eyes fell for the first time upon the guide. As I live, it was Jed Bungay, and when I stared at him in sudden amazement he broke into a broad grin.

he quoted gravely, his eyes brightening at my recognition. “Durn if I didn't begin ter think as how ye'd gone an' clar fergot me, Cap.”

“Not a bit of it, Jed,” and I rode up to him and extended my hand. “But how came you here? Are you the guide?”

“Sure thing, Cap; know this yere kintry like a buk. 'Jaded horsemen from the west, at evening to the castle pressed.' By gum, you put Beelzebub an' me through a blamed hard jolt of it so fur.”

“Beelzebub?”

“Ye bet, ther muel; I reckon as how ye ain't gone an' fergot him, hev ye?” and the little man squirmed in the delight of his vivid recollection. “'One blast upon his bugle horn is worth a thousand men.' But ye did ride like thunder, Cap, that's a fac', an' I ain't ther only one done up, neither. Jist take a squint et thet fat Dutchman thar.”

The fleshy Sergeant was undoubtedly fatigued, yet he was a thorough soldier, a strict disciplinarian, and although he moved as if his coarse army trousers were constant torture, he was not guilty of omitting any known requirement of his office.

“Chones”, he shouted impressively, “dot is not a good vay to tie dot horse. By Chiminy, he vould break his neck mit der rope. Glen, vy you makes play mit der gun dot vay? Donnerwetter! ven I speak mit you, stand op mit der little finger to der seam of der pantaloons. You vill never be no good.”

“Ebers,” I interrupted, “let the men rest as they please. I regret having ridden so hard, but I am used to soldiers who are toughened in field work. Are you pretty sore, Sergeant?”

“By Chiminy, I am, Captain; der skin vos rubbed off me by der saddle,” he answered, touching the afflicted part tenderly. “It vos der rackin' gait mit der horse vot did it. He is der vorst horse dot ever I ride.”

“Well, get as comfortable as you can, and I'll try to be more thoughtful in the future. Bungay, what has become of Maria?”

The little man's eyes suddenly filled with tears.

“I jist don't know, Cap,” he answered mournfully.

“Whin I got hum ther ol' cabin hed bin plum burnt down, nary stick o' it left, by gum! an' Mariar she wus clean gone. Hain't seed neither hide ner hair o' her since, thet's a fac'. An' I sorter drifted back ter you uns 'cause I didn't hev nowhar else ter go.”

“Did you hunt for her among the old plantations along the valley?” I asked, deeply touched by his evident feeling. “She very likely sought refuge in some of those houses.”

He looked at me in surprise. “I reckon, Cap, as how ye don't know much 'bout whut's a goin' on in ther valley fer ther las' few months,” he said soberly, rubbing down his mule as he spoke. “Tell ye whut, thar jist hain't no plantation houses left thar now, thet's a fac', leastwise not north o' ther lines we uns sorter hol' onto yit. Sheridan he played hell with his cavalry raids, an' whut the blue-bellies left ther durned guerillas an' bushwhackers wiped up es clean es a slate. Durn if a crow wudn't starve ter deth in ther valley now. Why, Cap, them thar deserters an' sich truck is organized now till they're mighty nigh an army, an' they don't skeer fer nuthin' les' ner a reg'ment. I see more ner a hundred an' fifty in one bunch up on ther White Briar two week ago, an' they're worse ner a parcel er pirates. I reckon as how they got Mariar, but I 'll bet she giv 'em a hot ol' time afore she done quit.”

Rumors of this state of affairs to north and west of our defending lines had already reached me,—indeed, the verification had formed part of my instructions; but Bungay's homely yet graphic description made the situation appear terribly real, and my thought went instantly forth to those I knew who might even then be exposed to this great and unexpected danger. That it was indeed menacing and constantly growing worse I could not doubt; the certainty of our early defeat was leading to almost wholesale desertions, and doubtless many of these went to swell those lawless ranks, whose sole purpose was plunder, and whose safe rendezvous was the inaccessible mountains. Wherever the guarding armies left neutral ground, there these bands overflowed and inaugurated a reign of terror. What they had been in their weakness I knew well through experiences of the past; what they might become in strength I could readily conjecture,—wild wolves of the hills, to whom human life was of no account, the fierce spawn of civil war. The very conception of Edith Brennan in such hands as these was agony. I felt I could never rest until assured of her safety, and since my orders granted me full authority to prolong my journey, I might ascertain whether or not she yet remained within the valley.

“Jed,” I asked, my mind finally settled, “do you know the old Minor plantation?”

“Ol Jedge Minor's place? Sure; it's up on ther south branch of ther Cowskin, an' used ter be quite a shebang afore ther war, an' afore ther ol' Jedge died. I reckon as how he hed ther biggest gang o' niggers in ther whole county, an' he wus allers durn gud ter 'em tew. Never no nigger ever run 'way from ol' Jedge Minor, ye bet. Mariar she used ter live thar whin Mis' Celie wus a baby.”

“Have those fellows got down that far yet?”

“Wal, I reckon not, but durn if I know fer sure, Cap. Ther whole valley is mighty bare north o' thar, fer I rid through it, an' Beelzebub hed ter live on clay, fer sure. Gee! but he wus hot. So them thar vultures hes got ter either work south er quit, an' I reckon as how they hain't likely ter quit till they hes tew. 'Sides, they're strong 'nough by now ter laugh et any sojers thar'bouts, an' ther ol' Minor place u'd make mighty gud pickin'. Thar hain't neither army ever bin up thar durin' ther war.”

“How long would it take us to reach there?”

“'Bout two days, I reckon, pervidin' ye shuck ther Dutchman.”

I turned and looked at my men in some perplexity. They were scattered along the edge of the road, and only one group had taken the precaution to build a fire. The Sergeant lay flat upon his back on a grassy knoll, his stomach rising and falling with a regularity which convinced me he was sleeping.

“Ebers,” I said sternly.

There was no response, and I could distinguish clearly his heavy breathing.

“One of you stir up the Sergeant, will you? I want to speak with him.”

A young fellow came forward grinning, and laid one hand heavily on his officer's shoulder.

“Come, Dutchy,” he said with easy familiarity, “get up!”

The Sergeant shot to an upright position like a jack-in-the-box. “Mein Gott,” he asked anxiously, “is it der Yanks vot come already?”

“Hell, no; but the Captain wants you.”

“Der Captain?” He arose ponderously, and came forward with a decidedly halting gait.

“Vos I sent for?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said; “I want you to have the men get their supper at once, as we shall be obliged to ride a good portion of the night.”

“Ride?” and his face took on an expression of genuine horror. “By Chiminy, Captain, it vos impossible. Mem Gott! it could not be done.”

“Why, what is the difficulty, Sergeant?”

“I am vounded vare I sets me down on der saddle. I am all—vot you calls it?—rare. Dunder, but it could not be.”

“I am exceedingly sorry, Ebers, and if you are unable to travel we shall be compelled to leave you behind,” I said, tired of it all by this time. “Get the men to their supper. We shall go on in an hour.”

How often since have I smiled at the expression upon his solemn round face as he turned ruefully away!