son had described, sat Scarlett, looking proud and handsome in his
uniform, while he fanned his face with his broad-leafed felt hat and
feathers, each waft of air sending his curls back from, his face.

Fred had involuntarily stopped short among the bushes to gaze at the
prisoner, heedless of the fact that Nat and the other men were just
before him, hidden by a screen of hazels.

Then the blood seemed to rush back to his breast, for a familiar voice
said--

"Don't tell me. He used to be a decent young fellow when he came over
to our place in the old days; but since he turned rebel and associated
with my bad brother, he's a regular coward--a cur--good for nothing but
to be beaten. See how white he turned when the captain hit him with
that staff. White-livered, that's what he is. Do you hear, sentries?
White-livered!"

The men on guard uttered a low growl, but they did not say a word in
their officer's defence; and a bitter sensation of misery crept through
Fred, seeming for the moment to paralyse him, and as he felt himself
touched, he turned slowly to look in a despondent way at Samson, who
stood close behind him, pointing toward the group as another prisoner
said--

"Why, if we had our hands free, and our swords and pistols, we'd soon
send these wretched rebels to the right-about. Miserable rabble, with a
miserable beggar of a boy to lead them, while we--just look at the young
captain! That's the sort of man to be over a troop of soldiers."

It was doubtful whether Scarlett heard them, as he sat there still
fanning his face, till at last, in a fit of half-maddening pique, Fred
turned again on Samson, and signed to him to follow.

Then, striding forward, he made his way to the sentry nearest to where
Scarlett was seated.

"Why are your prisoner's arms at liberty, sir?" he cried.

"Don't know, sir," said the man, surlily. "I didn't undo them."

Fred gazed at him fiercely, for he had never been spoken to before like
this, and he grasped the fact that he was losing the confidence of those
who ought to have looked up to him as one who had almost the power of
life and death over them.

"How came your lianas at liberty, sir?" cried Fred, sternly, as he
turned now on Scarlett.

The latter looked in his direction for a moment, raised his eyebrows,
glanced away, then back, in the most supercilious manner, and went on
fanning himself.

"I asked you, sir, how your hands came to be at liberty?"

"And, pray,