Captain Hartroy held an independent command.  His force consisted of a company of infantry, a squadron of cavalry, and a section of artillery, detached from the army to which they belonged, to defend an important defile in the Cumberland Mountains in Tennessee.  It was a field officer’s command held by a line officer promoted from the ranks, where he had quietly served until “discovered.”  His post was one of exceptional peril; its defense entailed a heavy responsibility and he had wisely been given corresponding discretionary powers, all the more necessary because of his distance from the main army, the precarious nature of his communications and the lawless character of the enemy’s irregular troops infesting that region.  He had strongly fortified his little camp, which embraced a village of a half-dozen dwellings and a country store, and had collected a considerable quantity of supplies.  To a few resident civilians of known loyalty, with whom it was desirable to trade, and of whose services in various ways he sometimes availed himself, he had given written passes admitting them within his lines.  It is easy to understand that an abuse of this privilege in the interest of the enemy might entail serious consequences.  Captain Hartroy had made an order to the effect that any one so abusing it would be summarily shot.

While the sentinel had been examining the civilian’s pass the captain had eyed the latter narrowly.  He thought his appearance familiar and had at first no doubt of having given him the pass which had satisfied the sentinel.  It was not until the man had got out of sight and hearing that his identity was disclosed by a revealing light from memory.  With soldierly promptness of decision the officer had acted on the revelation.

III

To any but a singularly self-possessed man the apparition of an officer of the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathed sword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furious pursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whom the pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no other effect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity.  He might easily enough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose another course of action—­turned and quietly faced the captain, saying as he came up:  “I reckon ye must have something to say to me, which ye disremembered.  What mout it be, neighbor?”

But the “neighbor” did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly act of covering him with a cocked pistol.

“Surrender,” said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness from exertion would permit, “or you die.”

There was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in the matter and in the means of enforcing it.  There was, too, something not altogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along the barrel of the weapon.  For a moment the two men stood looking at each other in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear—­with as great apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demand of the sentinel—­slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which had satisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying: