He rose and stood swaying on his feet, rubbing both eyes with briar-torn fists.

"You will take me, won't you, Roy?"

"Where?"

"Back to your regiment."

"Yes--I'll take you."

For a few moments she was busy gathering up her spools and linen.

"You carry my saddlebags," she said, "and I'll take the kitten. Isn't it cunning, Roy? Do look at the poor little thing! We can't leave it here."

Following, laden with her saddlebags, he stammered:

"Do--d-do you think they'll shoot me?"

"No," she said, smiling. "Be careful of the ferry steps; they are dreadfully shaky."

She began the descent, clasping the kitten in both arms; the boy followed. Seated in the punt, they stowed away the saddlebags and the kitten, then he picked up the pole, looked at her, hesitated. She waited.

"I guess the old man will have me shot.... But--I am going back," he said, as though to himself.

She watched him; he looked up.

"You're right, ma'am. I must have been crazy. Everybody reads about traitors--in school.... Nobody ever forgets their names.... I don't want my name in school books."

"Like Benedict Arnold's," she said; and he quivered from head to foot.

"Oh, cricky!" he burst out, horrified; "how close I came to it! Have you got those papers safe?"

"Yes, Roy."

"Then I'll go. I don't care what they do to me."

As he rose with the pole, far away in the woods across the river a cavalry band began to play. Faint and clear the strains of the Star-Spangled Banner rose from among the trees and floated over the water; the boy stood spellbound, mouth open; then, as the far music died away, he sank back into the boat, deathly pale.

"I--I ought to be hung!" he whispered.

The Messenger picked up the fallen pole, set it, and drove the punt out into the river. Behind her, huddled in the stern, the prodigal wept, uncomforted, head buried in his shaking arms; and the kitten, being afraid, left the shelter of the thwarts and crept up on his knees, sitting there and looking out at the unstable world of water in round-eyed apprehension.

As the punt grated on the northern shore the Messenger drove her pole into the mud, upright, and leaned on it.

"Roy," she said, looking back over her shoulder.

The boy rubbed his wet eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and got up.

"Are you afraid?"

"Not now."

"That is well.... You'll be punished.... Not severely.... For you came back of your own accord--repentant.... Tell me, were you really afraid that the Special Messenger might catch you?"

"Yes, I was," he said simply. "That's why I acted so rough with you....

I didn't know; they say any woman you see may be the Special Messenger.... So I took no chances.... Who are you, anyway?"

"Only a friend of yours," she said, smiling. "Please pick up my kitten.

Thank you.... And some day, when you've been very, very good, I'll ask Colonel Kay to let you take me fishing."

And she stepped lightly ashore; the boy followed, holding the kitten under one arm and drying his grimy eyes on his sleeve.

VI

AN AIR-LINE

"As for me," continued Colonel Gay bitterly, "I'm driven almost frantic by this conspiracy. Whenever a regiment arrives or leaves, whenever a train stirs--yes, by Heaven, every time a locomotive toots or a mule brays or a chicken has the pip--_somebody_ informs the Johnnies, and every detail is known to them within a few hours!"

The Special Messenger seated herself on the edge of the camp table. "I suppose they are very disagreeable to you about it at headquarters."

"Yes, they are--but how can I help it? Somehow or other, whatever is done or said or even thought in this devilish supply camp is immediately reported to Jeb Stuart; every movement of trains and troops leaks out; he'll know to-night what I ate for breakfast this morning--I'll bet on that. And, Messenger, let me tell you something. Joking aside, this thing is worrying me sick. Can you help me?"

"I'll try," she said. "Headquarters sent me. They're very anxious up there about the railroad."

"I can't help it!" cried the distracted officer. "On Thursday I had to concentrate the line-patrol to drive Maxon's bushwhackers out of Laurel Siding; and look what Stuart did to me. No sooner were we off than he struck the unguarded section and tore up two miles of track! What am I to do?"

The Special Messenger shook her pretty head in sympathy.

"There's a leak somewhere," insisted the angry officer; "it smells to Heaven, but I can't locate it. Somewhere there's a direct, intelligent and sinister underground communication between Osage Court House and Jeb Stuart at Sandy River--or wherever he is. And what I want you to do is to locate that leak and plug it."

"Of course," murmured the Special Messenger, gently tapping her riding skirt with her whip.

"Because," continued the Colonel, "headquarters is stripping this depot of troops. The Bucktails go to-day; Casson's New York brigade and Darrel's cavalry left yesterday. What remains is a mighty small garrison for a big supply depot--eleven hundred effectives, and they may take some of them at any moment. You see the danger?"

"Yes, I do."

"I've protested; I've pointed out the risk we run; I sent my third messenger to headquarters this afternoon. Of course, they don't intend to leave this depot unguarded--probably they'll send the Vermont troops from the North this week--but between the departure of Casson's column and the theoretical arrival of reenforcements from Preston, we'd be in a bad way if Stuart should raid us in force. And with this irritating and constant leaking out of information I'm horribly afraid he'll strike us as soon as the Bucktails entrain."

"Why don't you hold the Pennsylvania infantry until we can find out where the trouble lies?" asked the girl, raising her dark eyes to the nervous young Colonel.

"I haven't the authority; I've asked for it twice. Orders stand; the Bucktails are going, and I'm worried to death." He shoved his empty pipe into his mouth and bit viciously at the stem.

"Then," she said, "if I'm to do anything I'd better hurry, hadn't I?"

The young officer's face grew grimmer. "Certainly; but I've been a month at it and I'm no wiser. Of course I know you are very celebrated, ma'am; but, really, _do_ you think it likely that you can pick out this hidden mischief-maker before he sends word to Stuart to-night of our deplorable condition?"