“My God!  I believe you are!” I ejaculated at last, the words bursting forth unconsciously.  “How could I have made—­who are you anyhow?”

The restrained laughter rippled forth, as though the expression of my face appealed to her sense of humor.  Evidently the lady was no longer afraid of me, nor greatly distressed over the situation.

“Isn’t it too funny,” she exclaimed cheerfully, “and won’t Billie laugh about this when I tell him!”

“Maybe he will,” I acknowledged rather regretfully, “but it doesn’t make me laugh.”  Then a vague suspicion gripped me.  “Why did you think I took you for Billie?”

“Why, that was what you called me, wasn’t it?  The officer who escorted me past the pickets said Billie Hardy was going to try to run the lines to-night.  So it was easy enough to guess who you were after, Mr. Yankee.  It was lucky for Billie you got me instead—­or for you,” she added doubtfully.

“Oh, I guess I would have pulled through.”

“Maybe,” the tone decidedly provoking, “but I reckon you don’t know Billie.”

She began to gather up her hair, coiling the strands about her head carelessly, and I watched the simple operation, all the life gone out of me, unable to decide what to do.  It was useless to go back; almost equally useless to go forward.  I had no information to take into our lines of any value, and had failed utterly in my efforts to intercept the important despatches for Beauregard.  The knowledge of my mistake stung me bitterly, yet I could blame no one for the failure except myself.  The apparent carelessness of the girl puzzled me—­why should she be so completely at her ease in this adventure?  Only at the first had she exhibited the slightest excitement.  This seemed hardly natural—­alone, thus suddenly attacked by a stranger, an enemy, and openly threatened.

“You seem perfectly contented,” I said.  “Are you not frightened?”

“Frightened!” and she paused in her hair-dressing to bend slightly forward so as to look into my shadowed face.  “Why, of course not; why should I be?”

“But I am a stranger to you—­a Yank.  You are on the other side, are you not?”

“Oh, of course,” her lips revealing again the white teeth.  “But I don’t think all Yankees are demons.  I don’t believe you are.  I like your voice.  You see, I was educated in the North, and so am not prejudiced.  Please won’t you take off your hat, just for a minute?”

I did so, almost mechanically, not even realizing why she asked, until she bent forward, her eyes on my face.

“No, I am not frightened with you.  I was just a little, at first, of course, but not now.  You look as though you would fight too, but not with a woman.”  She stopped with an odd little shrug of the shoulders.  “What do you expect me to do—­sit here all night?”