I rode back slowly to rejoin the column of horsemen, glancing over my shoulder at the house, my mind busily occupied with the stirring events which had transpired there.  She had gone with the Confederate troops, and had probably already been safely returned to her own home.  Moran might have departed also, but more likely he remained to look after his property.  I wondered who was her escort for the long ride—­would it be Captain Le Gaire, sufficiently recovered from his injuries for this service, yet scarcely capable of active military duty?  If so, he was with her still, a guest at “The Gables,” sufficiently an invalid to be interesting, and to require attention, but with tongue in good repair.  I was glad I had told my story first; the gentleman would experience some difficulty in changing Miss Willifred’s opinion of the affair.

The gray dust cloud hung about us, almost obscuring the files of plodding troopers; to right and left the flankers showed dark against the green of the fields, and far in front an occasional carbine barked as some suspicious scout fired at a skulking figure.  Once this would have been full of interest, but now it was mere routine, the sturdy veterans of the Ninth riding soberly forward, choked with dust, their hats drawn low over their eyes, wearied by a long night in the saddle.  I glanced proudly down those ranks of fighting men, glad to be with them once again, but my thought drifted back to Billie, for this was the road we had travelled together.  It seemed a long while ago, and much might happen before we should meet again, if ever we did.  I might be killed in battle, or Le Gaire might insist upon an immediate marriage.  This last was what I most feared, for I believed that if this could only be sufficiently delayed, she would learn to know the man better, and refuse to be sacrificed.  The engagement rather mystified me, for it was clear enough no blind love on her part was responsible for its existence; at least she had begun to perceive his shallowness, and resented his attempt at bullying.  I even began to believe that some one else had now come into her life, whose memory would serve to increase the feeling of dissatisfaction.  Le Gaire was not the kind that wears well—­he could not improve upon acquaintance; and, while I was no connoisseur of women, yet I could not persuade myself that her nature was patient enough not to revolt against his pretensions.  I was no egotist, no lady-killer, but I recognized now that I loved this girl, and had read in her eyes the message of hope.  Mine was, at least, a fighting chance, and fighting was my trade.  I liked it better so, finding the lady more alluring because of the barrier between us, the zest of combat quickening my desire.  Already I began to plan meeting her again, now that the campaign had turned our faces southward.  Back beyond those wooded hills some freak of fate must lead me right, some swirl of fortune afford me opportunity.  I was of the school of Hope, and Love yielded courage.