I pushed on, having resolved, after finishing my duties, to visit Disaways.

Soon Dinwiddie Court-House came in sight. I entered the small village, and looked attentively--as I had done on more than one occasion before--at the locality which General Davenant's narrative had surrounded with so strange an interest. There was the old tavern, with its long portico, where Darke had held his orgies, and from which he had set forth on his errand of robbery and murder. There was the county jail, in which General Davenant had insisted upon being confined, and where so many friends had visited him. There was the old court-house, in which he had been tried for the murder of George Conway; and I fancied I could distinguish upon one of the shutters, the broken bolt which Darke had forced, more than ten years before, in order to purloin the knife with which the crime had been committed.

For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!--and the drama had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts "an interval of ten years is supposed to pa.s.s." There was the stage direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief.

He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman, with whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was true, but the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at any moment, recommence her _diablerie_. Had she found that paper--or had Mohun found it? In any event, she was dangerous--more so, even, than her male companion--that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in the road--that prince of surprises and tragic "appearances!"

"Decidedly, these are curiosities, this man and this woman!" I said; "they are two bottomless pits of daring and depravity. Mohun has escaped them heretofore, but now, when the enemy seem driving us, and sweeping every thing before them, will not Darke and madam attain their vengeance, and come out winners in the struggle?"

With that reflection, I dismissed the subject, and pushed on, over the narrow and winding roads, to make my inspections.

The day was cold and brilliant; the winds cut the face; and I rode on steadily, thinking of many things. Then the desire to smoke seized upon me. General Fitzhugh Lee had given me some excellent cigars, captured from the enemy, and I looked around to find some house where I could light my cigar. None appeared; but at two hundred yards from the road, in a hidden hollow, I thought I perceived the glimmer of a fire--probably made by some straggler. I rode toward it, descended into the hollow, approached the fire, beside which crouched a figure, wrapped in an overcoat. The figure raised its head--and I recognized Nighthawk.

He rose and smiled benignantly, as he shook hands with me.

"An unexpected meeting, Nighthawk," I said, laughing. "What on earth makes you come out and camp in the woods?"

"A little fancy, colonel; you know I am eccentric. I like this way of living, from having scouted so much--but I came here with an object!"

"What?"

"To be private. I thought my fire could not be seen from the road."

"Why should it not be?"

"Well, perhaps I exaggerate danger. But I am on an important scouting expedition--wanted to reflect, and not be seen--I am going, to-night, through the lines on a little affair of which you know something."

"Ah, what do you refer to?"

"That paper," said Nighthawk, succinctly. "It is in the hands of Alibi--there is a Yankee picket at his house--but I am going to see him, and force him to surrender it."

"Is it possible he has it! Do you know that?"

"Strangely enough, colonel. Do you remember that woman, Amanda?"

"Perfectly. I visited her with Mohun."

"He told me of your visit. Well, you no doubt remember also, colonel, that he offered her a large sum to discover the paper--that she offered to try and find it, or give him a clue to its whereabouts--he was to return in ten days, and hear her report."

"Yes," I said.

"Well, he returned, colonel, but Amanda could tell him nothing--which you no doubt have heard."

"Yes, from him."

"I have been more successful, at last, in dealing with this strange woman. I do not know if she is a witch or an epileptic, or what--but she has convinced me that Alibi has the paper we want."

And Nighthawk proceeded to explain. It was an exceedingly curious explanation. Amanda had first demanded of him a statement of all the facts. He had thereupon informed her of the appointment which he had made with Swartz in Richmond, to meet him three days afterward at the house of Alibi--of his detention by the pickets, so that he had been unable to keep the appointment--Alibi's statement when he saw him, that Swartz had not been to his house--and Swartz's confinement in the lonely house, ending in his murder by Darke. That was all he knew, he said--the paper was gone--where was it?

"At Mr. Alibi's," Amanda had replied; "I only asked you this, Mr.

Nighthawk, to satisfy myself that my visions were true. I _saw_ poor Mr. Swartz go to Mr. Alibi's, and ask for you, on the day you appointed. When he was told that you had not come, he seemed very low-spirited, and told Mr. Alibi that he _must_ see you, to give you a paper. His life was threatened, he said, on account of that paper. An officer and a lady had discovered that he had that paper--it was as much as his life was worth to keep it on his person--if Mr. Alibi would take it, and for old times' sake, put it away until _he_ came back, he would pay him as much gold as he could hold in both hands. Then he gave the paper to Mr. Alibi, and went away, telling him to say nothing of it."

"I then asked her," continued Nighthawk, "where the paper could be found. She replied that Alibi always carried it on his person. That was a few days ago. I am going to-night to see him, and recover the paper."

I had listened to this narrative with strange interest. This singular woman was a curious problem. Were her _visions_ really such as she described them? Or did she only "put this and that together," as the phrase is, and by her marvellous ac.u.men, sharpened possibly by disease, arrive at results which defied the most penetrating glance of the sane?

I knew not--but reflecting often upon this subject since, have finally come to the latter conclusion, as the more philosophic of the two.

Epilepsy is insanity of mind and body; and one of the most infallible characteristics of insanity is cunning--which is only another word for diseased and abnormal activity of brain. Amanda arrived at strange results, but I think she attained them by disease. Her ac.u.men in this affair could be thus explained, almost wholly. As to the truth of the explanation, I felt a singular presentiment that it was correct.

"Well, that is curious enough," I said, "and I wish you success, Nighthawk. What of our other female friend--the fair lady you arrested in Richmond?"

"She is safe enough, colonel, and I don't think she will trouble us soon."

"I am glad of it. I think her the more dangerous of _the two_."

"And I agree with you."

"When did you see Darke, last?"

"I have not met him for three months."

"He can not be dead?"

"He may be wounded."

"And Mohun--is he at his head-quarters?"

Nighthawk smiled.

"He is at Five Forks, to-day, colonel."

"And Willie Davenant?"

"In Richmond, on business at the war department."

"Humph! So I shall see neither--but another time."

And mounting my horse, I added:--

"Good luck, Nighthawk."

"Thank you, colonel--the same to you."

And leaving Nighthawk crouching down beside his fire, I rode on.

XIII.