"In about ten minutes. It will be easier to-morrow, when we send our sick North. Will you come in to-morrow?"

The Special Messenger shook her head dreamily.

"I don't know--I don't know.... Good-by."

"Are _you_ going on duty?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Now."

The Nurse rose and put both arms around her.

"I am so afraid for you," she said; "and it has been so good to see you.... I don't know whether we'll ever meet again----"

Her voice was obliterated in the noisy outburst of bugles sounding the noon sick-call.

They went out together, where the Messenger's horse was tied under the trees. Beyond, through the pines, glimmered the tents of an emergency hospital. And now, in the open air not very far away, they could hear picket firing.

"Do be careful," said the blue-eyed Nurse. "They say you do such audacious things; and every day somebody says you have been taken, or hanged, or shot. Dear, you are so young and so pretty----"

"So are you. Don't catch fever or smallpox or die from a scratch from a poisoned knife.... Good-by once more."

They kissed each other. A hospital orderly, passing hurriedly, stopped to hold her stirrup; she mounted, thanked the orderly, waved a smiling adieu to her old schoolmate, and, swinging her powerful horse westward, trotted off through the woods, passing the camp sentinels with a nod and a low-spoken word.

Farther out in the woods she encountered the first line of pickets; showed her credentials, then urged her horse forward at a gallop.

"Not that way!" shouted an officer, starting to run after her; "the Johnnies are out there!"

She turned in her saddle and nodded reassuringly, then spurred on again, expecting to jump the Union advance-guard every moment.

There seemed to be no firing anywhere in the vicinity; nothing to be seen but dusky pine woods; and after she had advanced almost to the edge of a little clearing, and not encountering the outer line of Union pickets, she drew bridle and sat stock still in her saddle, searching in every direction with alert eyes.

Nothing moved; the heated scent of the Southern pines hung heavy in the forest; in the long, dry swale-grass of the clearing, yellow butterflies were flying lazily; on a dead branch above her a huge woodpecker, with pointed, silky cap, uttered a querulous cry from moment to moment.

She strained her dainty, close-set ears; no sound of man stirred in this wilderness--only the lonely bird-cry from above; only the ceaseless monotone of the pine crests stirred by some high breeze unfelt below.

A forest path, apparently leading west, attracted her attention; into this she steered her horse and continued, even after her compass had warned her that the path was now running directly south.

The tree-growth was younger here; thickets of laurel and holly grew in the undergrowth, and, attempting a short cut out, she became entangled.

For a few minutes her horse, stung by the holly, thrashed and floundered about in the maze of tough stems; and when at last she got him free, she was on the edge of another clearing--a burned one, lying like a path of black velvet in the sun. A cabin stood at the farther edge.

Three forest bridle paths ran west, east, and south from this blackened clearing. She unbuttoned her waist, drew out a map, and, flattening it on her pommel, bent above it in eager silence. And, as she sat studying her map, she became aware of a tremor in the solid earth under her horse's feet. It grew to a dull jarring vibration--nearer--nearer--nearer--and she hastily backed her horse into the depths of the laurel, sprang to the ground, and placed both gauntleted hands over her horse's nostrils.

A moment later the Confederate cavalry swept through the clearing at a trot--a jaunty, gray column, riding two abreast, then falling into single file as they entered the bridle path at a canter.

She watched them as they flashed by among the pines, sitting their horses beautifully, the wind lifting the broad brims of their soft hats, the sun a bar of gold across each sunburned face.

There were only a hundred of them--probably some of Ashby's old riders, for they seemed strangely familiar--but it was not long before they had passed on their gay course, and the last tremor in the forest soil--the last distant rattle of sabre and carbine--died away in the forest silence.

What were they doing here? She did not know. There seemed no logical reason for the presence of Stuart's troopers.

For a while, awaiting their possible collision with the Union outposts, she listened, expecting the far rattle of rifles. No sound came. They must have sheered off east. So, very calmly she addressed herself to the task in hand.

This must be the burned clearing; her map and the cabin corroborated her belief. Then it was here that she was to meet this unknown man in Confederate uniform and Union pay--a spy like herself--and give him certain information and receive certain information in return.

Her instructions had been unusually rigid; she was to take every precaution; use native disguise whether or not it might appear necessary, carry no papers, and let any man she might encounter make the advances until she was absolutely certain of him. For there was an ugly rumor afloat that the man she expected had been caught and hanged, and that a Confederate might attempt to impersonate him. So she looked very carefully at her map, then out of the thicket at the burned clearing.

There was the wretched cabin named as rendezvous, the little garden patch with standing corn and beans, and here and there a yellowing squash.

_Why had the passing rebel cavalry left all that good food undisturbed?_

Fear, which within her was always latent, always too ready to influence her by masquerading as caution, stirred now. For almost an hour she stood, balancing her field glasses across her saddle, eyes focused on the open cabin door. Nothing stirred there.

At last, with a slight shiver, she opened her saddle bags and drew out the dress she meant to wear--a dingy, earth-colored thing of gingham.

Deep in the thicket she undressed, folded her fine linen and silken stockings, laid them away in the saddle bags together with waist and skirt, field glasses, gauntlets, and whip, and the map and papers, which latter, while affording no information to the enemy, would certainly serve to convict her.

Dressed now in the scanty, colorless clothing of a "poor white" of the pine woods, limbs and body tanned with walnut, her slender feet rubbed in dust and then thrust stockingless into shapeless shoes, she let down the dark, lustrous mass of her hair, braided it, tied it with faded ribbon, rubbed her hands in wood mold and crushed green leaves over them till they seemed all stained and marred with toil. Then she gathered an armful of splinter wood.

Now ready, she tethered her horse, leaving him bitted and saddled; spread out his sack of feed, turned and looked once more at the cabin, then walked noiselessly to the clearing's edge, carrying her aromatic splinters.

Underfoot, as she crossed it, the charred grass crumbled to powder; three wild doves flickered up into flight, making a soft clatter and displaying the four white feathers. A quail called from the bean patch.

The heat was intense in the sun; perspiration streaked her features; her tender feet burned; the cabin seemed a long way off, a wavering blot through the dancing heat devils playing above the fire-scorched open.

Head bent, she moved on in the shiftless, hopeless fashion of the sort of humanity she was representing, furtively taking her bearings and making such sidelong observations as she dared. To know the shortest way back to her horse might mean life to her. She understood that. Also she fully realized that she might at that very instant be under hostile observation. In her easily excited imagination, all around her the forest seemed to conceal a hundred malevolent eyes. She shivered slightly, wiped the perspiration from her brow with one small bare fist, and plodded on, clutching her lightwood to her rounded breast.

And now at last she was nearing the open cabin door; and she must not hesitate, must show no suspicion. So she went in, dragging her clumsily-shod feet.

A very young man in the uniform of a Confederate cavalry officer was seated inside before the empty fireplace of baked clay. He had a bad scar on his temple. She looked at him, simulating dull surprise; he rose and greeted her gracefully.

"Howdy," she murmured in response, still staring.

"Is this your house?" he asked.

"Suh?" blankly.

"Is this your house?"

"I reckon," she nodded. "How come you-all in my house?"

He replied with another question:

"What were you doing in the woods?"

"Lightwood," she answered briefly, stacking the fragrant splinters on the table.