"You didn't see Longstreet, did you?"

"Yes, sir; and talked with him."

The general's body servant knocked, announcing breakfast, and left the general's boots and tunic, both carefully brushed. When he had gone out again, the Special Messenger said very quietly:

"I expect to report on the Moray matter before night."

The general buckled in his belt and hooked up his sword.

"If you can nail that fellow," he said, speaking very slowly, "I guess you can come pretty close to getting whatever you ask for from Washington."

For a moment she stood very silent there, her ripped jacket hanging limp over her arm; then, with a pallid smile:

"Anything I ask for? Did you say that, sir?"

He nodded.

"Even if I ask for--his pardon?"

The general laughed a distorted laugh.

"I guess we'll bar that," he said. "Will you breakfast, ma'am? The next room is free, if you want it."

Headquarters bugles began to sound as she crossed the hall, jacket dangling over her arm, and pushed open the door of a darkened room. The air within was stifling, she opened a window and thrust back the blinds, and at the same moment the ringing crack of a rifled cannon shattered the silence of dawn. Very, very far away a dull boom replied.

Outside, in dusky obscurity, cavalry were mounting; a trooper, pumping water from a well under her window, sang quietly to himself in an undertone as he worked, then went off carrying two brimming buckets.

The sour, burned stench of stale campfires tainted the morning freshness.

She leaned on the sill, looking out into the east. Somewhere yonder, high against the sky, they were signaling with torches. She watched the red flames swinging to right, to left, dipping, circling; other sparks broke out to the north, where two army corps were talking to each other with fire.

As the sky turned gray, one by one the forest-shrouded hills took shape; details began to appear; woodlands grew out of fathomless shadows, fields, fences, a rocky hillock close by, trees in an orchard, some Sibley tents.

And with the coming of day a widening murmur grew out of the invisible, a swelling monotone through which, incessantly, near and distant, broken, cheery little flurries of bugle music, and far and farther still, where mists hung over a vast hollow in the hills, the dropping shots of the outposts thickened to a steady patter, running backward and forward, from east to west, as far as the ear could hear.

A soldier brought her some breakfast; later he came again with her saddlebags and a big bucket of fresh water, taking away her riding habit and boots, which she thrust at him from the half-closed door.

Her bath was primitive enough; a sheet from the bed dried her, the saddlebags yielded some fresh linen, a pair of silk stockings and a comb.

Sitting there behind closed blinds, her smooth body swathed to the waist in a sheet, she combed out the glossy masses of her hair before braiding them once more around her temples; and her dark eyes watched daylight brighten between the slits in the blinds.

The cannonade was gradually becoming tremendous, the guns tuning up by batteries. There was, however, as yet, no platoon firing distinguishable through the sustained crackle of the fusillade; columns of dust, hanging above fields and woodlands, marked the courses of every northern road where wagons and troops were already moving west and south; the fog from the cannon turned the rising sun to a pulsating, cherry-tinted globe.

There was no bird music now from the orchard; here and there a scared oriole or robin flashed through the trees, winging its frightened way out of pandemonium.

The cavalry horses of the escort hung their heads, as though dully enduring the uproar; the horses of the field ambulances parked near the orchard were being backed into the shafts; the band of an infantry regiment, instruments flashing dully, marched up, halted, deposited trombone, clarion and bass drum on the grass and were told off as stretcher-bearers by a smart, Irish sergeant, who wore his cap over one ear.

The shock of the cannonade was terrific; the Special Messenger, buttoning her fresh linen, winced as window and door quivered under the pounding uproar. Then, dressed at last, she opened the shaking blinds and, seating herself by the window, laid her riding jacket across her knees.

There were rents and rips in sleeve and body, but she was not going to sew. On the contrary, she felt about with delicate, tentative fingers, searching through the loosened lining until she found what she was looking for, and, extracting it, laid it on her knees--a photograph, in a thin gold oval, covered with glass.

The portrait was that of a young man--thin, quaintly amused, looking out of the frame at her from behind his spectacles. The mustache appeared to be slighter, the hair a trifle longer than the mustache and hair worn by the signal officer, Captain West. Otherwise, it was the man. And hope died in her breast without a flicker.

Sitting there by the shaking window, with the daguerreotype in her clasped hands, she looked at the summer sky, now all stained and polluted by smoke; the uproar of the guns seemed to be shaking her reason, the tumult within her brain had become chaos, and she scarcely knew what she did as, drawing on both gauntlets and fastening her soft riding hat, she passed through the house to the porch, where the staff officers were already climbing into their saddles. But the general, catching sight of her face at the door, swung his horse and dismounted, and came clanking back into the deserted hallway where she stood.

"What is it?" he asked, lowering his voice so she could hear him under the din of the cannonade.

"The Moray matter.... I want two troopers detailed."

"Have you nailed him?"

"Yes--I--" She faltered, staring fascinated at the distorted face, marred by a sabre to the hideousness of doom itself. "Yes, I think so.

I want two troopers--Burke and Campbell, of the escort, if you don't mind----"

"You can have a regiment! Is it far?"

"No." She steadied her voice with an effort.

"Near _my_ headquarters?"

"Yes."

"Damnation!" he blazed out, and the oath seemed to shock her to self-mastery.

"Don't ask me now," she said. "If it's Moray, I'll get him.... What are those troops over there, General?" pointing through the doorway.

"The Excelsiors--Irish Brigade."

She nodded carelessly. "And where are the signal men? Where is your signal officer stationed--Captain----"

"Do you mean West? He's over on that knob, talking to Wilcox with flags.

See him, up there against the sky?"

"Yes," she said.

The general's gimlet eyes seemed to bore through her. "Is that all?"

"All, thank you," she motioned with dry lips.

"Are you properly fixed? What do you carry--a revolver?"

She nodded in silence.

"All right. Your troopers will be waiting outside.... Get him, in one way or another; do you understand?"

"Yes."

A few moments later the staff galloped off and the escort clattered behind, minus two troopers, who sat on the edge of the veranda in their blue-and-yellow shell jackets, carbines slung, poking at the grass with the edges of their battered steel scabbards.