y there just below her; there could be
no mistake. A stony road wound along the stream, flanked by forest-clad
heights; she recognized the timber bridge over the ravine, which had
been described to her, the corduroy way across the swamp, the single,
squat cabin crowning a half-cleared hillock. She realized at a glance
the awful trap that this silent, deadly place could be turned into; for
one rushing moment her widening eyes could almost see blue masses of men
in disorder, crushed into that horrible defile; her ears seemed to ring
with their death cries, the rippling roar of rifle fire. Then, with a
sharp, indrawn breath, she hastened forward, taking the descent at a
run. And at the same moment three gray-jacketed cavalrymen cantered into
the road below, crossed the timber bridge at a gallop, and disappeared
in the pass, carbines poised.

She had arrived a minute too late; the pass was closed!

Toiling breathlessly up the bushy hillock, crouching, bending, creeping
across the stony open where scant grass grew in a meager garden, she
reached the cabin. It was empty; a fire smoldered under a kettle in
which potatoes were boiling; ash cakes crisped on the hearth, bacon
sizzled in a frying pan set close to the embers.

But where was the tenant?

A shout from the road below brought her to the door; then she dropped
flat on her stomach, crawled forward, and looked over the slope.

A red-haired old man, in his shirt sleeves, carrying a fishing pole, was
running down the road, chased by two gray-jacketed troopers. He ran
well, throwing away his pole and the string of slimy fish he had been
carrying; but, half way across the stream, they rode him down and caught
him, driving their horses straight into the shallow flood; and a few
moments later a fresh squad of cavalry trotted up, forced the prisoner
to mount a led horse, and, surrounding him, galloped rapidly away
southward.

The Special Messenger lay perfectly still and flat, watching, listening,
waiting, coolly alert for a shadow of a chance to slip out and through
the pass; but there was to be no such chance now, for a dozen troopers
came into view, running their lean horses at top speed, and wheeled
straight into the pass. A full squadron followed, their solid galloping
waking clattering echoes among the rocks. Then her delicate ears caught
a distant, ominous sound--nearer, louder, ringing, thudding, jarring,
pounding--the racket of field artillery arriving at full spe