gray or blue; I could not be certain which, so quickly were they lowered, and so shadowed by long lashes.  And they were merry eyes, smiling, and deep with secrets no man could hope to solve.  Perhaps she deemed it only fair that I should look at her as she had been observing me; perhaps it was but the coquetry of the “eternal feminine” conscious of her own attraction, but she sat there silent, the lashes shading her eyes, the clear light of the dawn upon her face.  I cannot describe what I saw, only it was a young face, the skin clear and glowing with health, the nose beautifully moulded, the throat white and round, the red lips arched like a bow, and a broad forehead shadowed by dark hair.  She had a trooper’s hat on, worn jauntily on one side, crossed sabres in front, and her shoulders were concealed by a gray cavalry cape.  Suddenly she flashed a glance at me, her eyes full of laughter.

“Well, Mr. Lieutenant Galesworth, have you looked long enough?”

The swift question confused me, but I found answer.

“No; but as long as I dare.  You were observing me also.”

“Naturally—­womanly curiosity is my excuse.  Would you like to know what conclusion I came to?”

“From your eyes it may not prove altogether flattering.”

“Oh, my eyes are not to be trusted.  I warn you frankly of that at the very start.  All I shall say is you appear better than I had expected—­only, really, you need a shave.”

“Better how?  In what way?”

“Well, younger for one thing; somehow your statement that you were a lieutenant made me suspect your age—­or possibly it was your voice.”

“I am twenty-four.”

“And look to be scarcely twenty.  How did you ever gain a commission?  Were you in battle?”

The question decidedly hurt my pride, yet I managed to control my tongue.

“I have met colonels in both armies no older than I,” I returned swiftly.  “Of course I have been in battle, wounded for the matter of that, and three months a prisoner.”

“Oh, I did not mean to question your right to the shoulder straps.  War makes men fast; I know that for my home has been in the track of both armies.”

“You live in this neighborhood?”

“Yes, about twenty miles south of where we are now.  Shall I tell you what I am doing here?”

I bowed, eager to learn although I had not been brash enough to inquire.

“You have been wondering all night,” carelessly.  “If you had asked I should have refused to answer, but will now reward your remarkable patience with a full confession.  I am going to take quinine back to our hospitals.  I won’t tell you where I am going to get it,” a bit defiantly, “although I am not afraid you would try to stop me.”

“Certainly not; why should I?”

“There are plenty of Yanks who do; the last messenger was shot by your raiders, and the whole consignment lost.  He was my cousin; that is why I am trying what I can do—­the boys need it so badly.  If you are an honorable soldier you will not interfere with a work of mercy.”