“I give you until I can count ten to call your wife!  One! two! three! four! five! six! seven! eight! nine!—­”

“Sophy!  Sophy!” cried the farmer, who saw death flaming in the eyes that looked into his, “Come!  Come a-runnin’!”

A good looking young woman threw open a door and ran, frightened, toward the gate, where she saw her husband under the pistol muzzle of a wild and savage looking man on horseback.

“Sophy,” said the farmer, “bring this infernal rebel a cup of coffee and a plate of bread and meat.  If it weren’t for his pistol I’d drag him off his horse and carry him to General Meade, but he’s got the drop on me!”

“And Sophy,” said Harry, who was growing cooler, “you make it a big tin cup of coffee and you see that the plate is piled high with meat and bread.  Now don’t you make one mistake.  Don’t you come back with any weapon in your hand in place of food, and don’t you fire on me from the house with the family rifle.  You’re young and you’re good looking, and, doubtless the widow of our friend here with the upraised hands, wouldn’t have to wait long for another husband just as good as he is.”

The woman paled a little, and Harry knew that some thought of the family rifle had been in her mind.  The husband’s glare became ferocious.

“You can take your hands down,” said Harry.  “I’ve no wish to torture you, and I’m satisfied now that you’re not armed.”

The man dropped his arms and the woman hurried to the kitchen.  Harry did not watch her, but kept his eyes continually upon the man, who he knew would take advantage of his first careless moment, and spring for him like a tiger.  A pistol that he couldn’t fire wouldn’t be of much use to him then.

But the woman returned with a big tin cup of smoking coffee and a plate piled high with bread and bacon and beefsteak.  It was a welcome sight.  The aspect of the whole world became brighter at once, and the pulse of hope beat high.  But happiness did not make him relax caution.

“Stand back about ten feet more,” he said to the man, “I don’t like your looks.”

“What’s the matter with my looks?”

“It’s not exactly your looks I mean, though they’re scarcely worthy of the lady, your wife, but it’s rather your attitude or position which reminds me of a lion or a tiger about to spring upon something it hates.”

The man, with a savage growl, withdrew a little.

“I’d like to put a bullet through you,” he said.

“I’ve no doubt of it, your eyes show it, but before I take a polite leave of you I want to tell you that I did not steal this horse from your friend, Jim Kendall.  I paid for it at his own valuation.”

“Confederate money that won’t be worth a dollar a bale before long.”

“Oh, no, bills that were made and stamped at Washington, and I pay for this breakfast in silver.”

He dropped it into the hand of the woman, as he took the huge cup of coffee from her.  Then he drank deep and long, and again and again, draining the last drop of the brown liquid.