MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
done right to trap me, to lead me on, to make me prisoner. She had pretended no interest in me: she had not led me into this by any miserable deceit; she was in no way to be blamed because I imagined her flushed checks and downcast eyes meant something other than they did. No doubt she was laughing at me now, and I hated the thought of that, yet she had fairly outwitted me, and I deserved the ridicule for proving such a fool.
I stopped my senseless battering at the door, searching the floor for the match case dropped in my first excitement, and then, as a match flared yellow, I glanced about at my prison. It was a square room of medium size, the walls and ceiling of polished oak, a few pieces of furniture piled in one corner, a boarded-up fireplace opposite with mantel above, and a single window, tightly closed by an outside shutter. I struck match after match examining everything carefully, yet this was the sum total of my discoveries; there was no way out, and the fact that not the slightest sound reached me suggested an unusual thickness of walls. A bit unnerved, I found a chair which would sustain my weight, and sat down, endeavoring to think. But in truth there was little enough to reflect over under those circumstances. No regret could aid me, and any attempt at planning seemed equally valueless. So far as I could determine I was helpless, and could only await, as patiently as possible, the will of my captors. Indeed, the longer I considered the conditions the less I feared the results. I could hardly have been thus imprisoned with any serious intention of delivering me over to the Confederate authorities, or even to the tender
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