“An honorable soldier!” I exclaimed, stung by the words.  “Do you question that?”

“Not until after daylight came, and I noticed how you were clothed,” and her eyes lost all gleam of humor.  “I respect a scout, but despise a spy.”

My cheeks flamed, as I realized what she meant—­the tattered gray jacket, buttoned tightly, and concealing my blue blouse.  In swift disgust I wrenched it open, and flung the garment into the road.

“I had entirely forgotten I had the thing on,” I explained hastily.  “Don’t condemn until you hear my story.  You will listen, will you not?”

She sat silent, looking intently into my face, with merely the slightest inclination of the head.

“I came into your lines dressed just as I am now, drifting across the river behind a log.  It was my third attempt to get through your pickets, and this time I succeeded.  I found myself in thick brush near a cluster of tents, and overheard two officers talking.  One was a major by the name of Hardy—­do you know him?”

“Yes,” a swift little catch in her voice.

“The other was a shorter, heavier-set man, out-ranking Hardy.”

“Speaking with short, crisp sentences,” she interrupted, “and wearing a heavy beard?”

“He spoke that way—­yes; but as to the beard I could not say owing to the darkness.”

“It must have been General Johnston.”

“I thought as much.  The two were discussing the getting of despatches through to Beauregard, and decided no one could succeed but a fellow they called Billie, some relative or friend of Hardy’s.  It was all arranged he should try it, and the major started off to complete arrangements.  An aide, with the despatches, was to meet the messenger at the ‘Three Corners,’ where the little log church is, and then accompany him through the pickets.  It was plainly enough my duty to intercept these if I could, but in order to do so I must pass through two miles of the Confederate camp, meeting soldiers almost every step of the way.  That was when I stole the jacket, and slipped it on, and never thought of it again until you spoke.”

She was leaning forward now, intensely interested, her lips parted, the quick breath revealed by the pulsing of her breast.

“And—­and you got to the ’Three Corners’?”

“To a point just below.  I ran most of the way, and then had to crawl through the bushes to get around a picket-post, but I believed I was there in plenty of time.  Then you came rattling down the hill, with an officer riding along beside you, and, of course, I mistook you for Billie.  I jumped your outfit in the hollow.”

She flung up her hands in expressive gesture.

“Were you hanging there all that time—­even before the lieutenant left?”

“I certainly was; hanging on for dear life too.  My limbs are black and blue.  I never saw a pony travel like that little devil.”

She burst into an unrestrained ripple of laughter, scarcely able to speak, as the full humor of the situation appealed to her.  No doubt the expression of my face did its part, but she certainly found it most amusing.  In spite of myself I had to smile in sympathy.