MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
never leaving her motionless figure. Apparently there was some movement down stairs, for she kept looking intently that way, utterly oblivious to any danger from behind. I was within a foot of her before some instinct told her of my presence. Even as she leaped to her feet, giving vent to a faint cry of startled fear, I had grasped the barrel of her gun, and held it safely.
"You said, Miss Denslow, this was war," I began sternly, "and now it is my turn. Give me the carbine." She released her grasp of it, her eyes on my face. They were not angry, but soft from unshed tears. Some way the expression in them took all the fight out of me.
"I—I am sorry," I stammered lamely, "that I must hold you prisoner, but you have proven too dangerous to be permitted to go free."
"How did you get here? Where did you come from?" she questioned, finding her voice.
"Oh, that was simple enough. I came out through the window of one room, and in through the window of another. Some of your friends shot at me, but their marksmanship was poor. You must have a pretty low opinion of Yankees to suppose one would lie idle under lock and key."
She sank back upon the chair, her face buried in her hands. A wave of pity swept over me.
"Don't be angry," I urged, thinking only of her. "I could do no less."
"I am not angry at you," and she looked up at me, the tears now plainly visible, "I respect you more because you have not yielded. But—but I have failed—failed
[ 216 ]
