In a second the world may be changed—­in a second the world was changed.  I saw my captor’s gun drop from his hands; I saw his hands go up.  I looked round; in the road behind me—­blessed sight—­were two Union soldiers with their muskets levelled at the man in gray.

“Take me at once to General Franklin.”

Again I was thunderstruck—­two voices had shouted the same words!

The revulsion turned me stomach-sick; the rider of the black horse was a
Federal in disguise!

* * * * *

General Franklin advanced, and met the enemy advancing.  For no error on my part, my mission was a failure.

“How could you know the road so well for the last ten miles of it?” I asked of Jones, the rider of the black horse.

“That horse was going home!”

“A horse captured from the rebels?”

“No; impressed only yesterday from a farmer near the landing.  You see he had already made that road and was not in the best condition to make it again so soon; then I had to turn about more than once.  I suppose that horse must have made nearly a hundred miles in twenty-four hours.”

Jones was of Porter’s escort, and had on this occasion served as General
Porter’s messenger.

On the next day, the 8th, I returned to the Sanitary Camp.

XIV

OUT OF SORTS

      “Your changed complexions are to me a mirror
      Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be
      A party in this alteration, finding
      Myself thus altered with it.”—­SHAKESPEARE.

It would have been quite impossible for me to analyze my feeling for Dr. Khayme.  His affection for me was unconcealed, and I was sure that no other man was received as his companion—­not that he was distant, but that he was not approached.  By nature I am affectionate, but at that time my emotions were severely and almost continually repressed by my will, because of a condition of nervous sensitiveness in regard to the possibility of an exposure of my peculiarity, so that I often wondered whether the Doctor fully understood the love and reverence I bore him.

On the morning following the day last spoken of—­that is to say, on the morning of May 9th—­Dr. Khayme rode off to the old William and Mary College, now become a hospital, leaving me to my devices, as he said, for some hours.  I was sitting on a camp-stool in the open air, busily engaged in cleaning my gun and accoutrements, when I saw a man coming toward me.  It was Willis.

“Where is the Doctor?” he asked.

“Gone to the hospital; want to see him?”

“That depends.”

“He will be back in an hour or two.  Boys all right?” I brought out a camp-stool; Willis remained standing.

“Oh, yes; what’s left of ’em.  Say, Berwick, what’s this I hear about your being detailed for special work?”