nerves shaken, extinguished the lights, without even venturing to glance again into the dark parlor, and felt my way into the night without. It was sufficiently dark to compel me to feel passage cautiously over the uneven ground, the path, circling an old garden, leading toward the stable. Twice I stumbled over the remnants of a broken fence, and once I stepped blindly into a shallow trench, and dropped my bundle. The recovery of it brought me a new thought—this would be Federal territory; or if not, already, my night's ride would bring me well within their lines before dawn. My pass, my Confederate uniform, would only serve to increase the peril of possible capture. There might be those back yonder in Hot Springs who would recall our passage through the village, who would describe the artillery sergeant to Harwood's questioning cavalrymen. A change of clothing would throw them off the trail. I slipped instantly out of the soiled suit of gray, and donned the immaculate blue, buckling the belt about my waist, and securely hooking the saber. Then I scooped out a hole in the soft dirt, and buried the old uniform, tearing my pass into shreds, scattering the fragments broadcast. It was so lonely and still all about, not even a breath of wind stirring the leaves, that I felt a return of confidence, a renewed courage. The house behind me, and the
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