“Some fight going on out there,” indicating the north and east, “and seems to be drifting this way.”

“Our fellows are driving you,” I replied.  “Have been noticing that all the morning; looks as if your left and centre were giving way.”

“Wait until Chambers gets up, and you’ll hear another tune,” his pride touched.  “What’s the sergeant doing?”

“Evidently going to get a look at the attic.”  Then, deciding quickly,—­“I am going to turn you all loose, and try to get back to our lines, as soon as we can gain some understanding of this death mystery, Bell.  It looks as though the battle would end up somewhere about here, and I can hardly expect to fight the entire Confederate army with ten men and a sergeant.  It’s a dignified retreat for me.  Where now?”

“To help your man.  I am crazy to get away.  I’m a soldier, Galesworth, and they’re wondering out there why I am not in my place.  The earlier you say go, the better pleased I’ll be.”

He clambered out the window to where Miles was perched on the steep roof, and I was left alone, with no noise in my ears but the continuous firing, the reverberations already jarring the house.  I found it difficult to collect my thoughts, or to reason out the situation.  Everything had occurred so swiftly, so unexpectedly, as to leave me confused—­the surging of battle our way, the affair with Le Gaire, his strange death, the thought which had taken possession of Billie, the skulking murderer hid somewhere within the house—­all combined to leave me in a state of perplexity.  I should have withdrawn my men before daylight; there was no sign of any Federal troops advancing up the ravine, and probably my messenger had failed to get through.  It looked as though we were left to our fate.  Every moment counted, and yet I could not leave until this mystery was made clear, and Miss Willifred convinced of my innocence.  I was so involved in the tangled threads that to run away was almost a confession, and must risk remaining, moment by moment, in hope some discovery would make it all plain.  Yet the longer I thought the less I understood.  Le Gaire had come to Billie wounded—­but how?  His very condition had appealed to her as a woman.  She had pitied, sympathized, and he had taken advantage of her natural compassion to falsely charge me with the whole trouble.  How far he had gone, what foul accusation he had made, could not be guessed, yet he had sufficiently poisoned her mind against me.  Then circumstances had combined to make the case still blacker.  Doubtless to her it was already conclusive.  I had been seeking the fellow alone, revolver in hand.  She had overheard what must have sounded like a struggle, and there was the dead man, his skull crushed by a blow.  Everything pointed directly toward me from her point of view—­motive, opportunity.  Who else could it be?  Even I, anxious as I was, could not answer that question.  I had seen no one, was not aware the dead man had