cept death--his or
hers--realized she made an awful mistake--divined in one dreadful
instant the unsuspected counter-mine beneath her very feet--cried out as
she struck him full in the face with clenched fist, sprang back,
whipping the revolver from her ragged bodice, dark eyes ablaze.

"Now," she panted, "hands high--and turn your back! Quickly!"

He stood still, very pale, one sunburned hand covering the cheek which
she had struck. There was blood on it. He heard her breathless voice,
warning him to obey, but he only took his hand from his face, looked at
the blood on palm and finger, then turned his hopeless eyes on her.

"Too late," he said heavily. "But--I'd rather be you than I.... Look out
of that window, Messenger!"

"Put up your hands!"

"No."

"Will you hold up your hands!"

"No, Messenger.... And I--didn't--know it was _you_ when I came here.
It's--it's a dirty business--for an officer." He sank down on the wooden
chair, resting his head between both hands. A single drop of blood fell
brightly from his cut cheek.

The Special Messenger stole a swift, sidelong glance toward the window,
hesitated, and, always watching him, slid along the wall toward the
door, menacing him at every step with leveled revolver. Then, at the
door, she cast one rapid glance at the open field behind her and around.
A thrill of horror stiffened her. The entire circle of the burned
clearing was ringed with the gray pickets of rebel cavalry.

The distant men sat motionless on their horses, carbine on thigh. Here
and there a distant horse tossed his beautiful head, or perhaps some
hat-brim fluttered. There was no other movement, not one sound.

Crouching to pass the windows beneath the sills she crept, heedless of
her prisoner, to the rear door. That avenue to the near clustering woods
was closed, too; she saw the glitter of carbines above the laurel.

"Special Messenger?" She turned toward him, pale as a ghost. "I reckon
we've got you."

"Yes," she said.

There was another chair by the table--the only other one. She seated
herself, shaking all over, laid her revolver on the table, stared at the
weapon, pushed it from her with a nervous shudder, and, ashy of lip and
cheek, looked at the man she had struck.

"Will they--hang me?"

"I reckon, ma'am. They hung the other one--the man you took me for."

"Will there be a--trial?"

"Drumhead.... They've been after you a long, long while."

"Then--what are you waiting for?