“I reckon this ’ere parss from Mister Hartroy is—­”

“The pass is a forgery,” the officer said, interrupting.  “I am Captain Hartroy—­and you are Dramer Brune.”

It would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of the civilian’s face at these words, and the only other manifestation attesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb and fingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road, unheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coating of dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore.  A moment later the civilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said: 

“Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner.  I have on my person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and its armament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number, a map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts.  My life is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way than by your own hand, and if you are willing to spare me the indignity of marching into camp at the muzzle of your pistol, I promise you that I will neither resist, escape, nor remonstrate, but will submit to whatever penalty may be imposed.”

The officer lowered his pistol, uncocked it, and thrust it into its place in his belt.  Brune advanced a step, extending his right hand.

“It is the hand of a traitor and a spy,” said the officer coldly, and did not take it.  The other bowed.

“Come,” said the captain, “let us go to camp; you shall not die until to-morrow morning.”

He turned his back upon his prisoner, and these two enigmatical men retraced their steps and soon passed the sentinel, who expressed his general sense of things by a needless and exaggerated salute to his commander.

IV

Early on the morning after these events the two men, captor and captive, sat in the tent of the former.  A table was between them on which lay, among a number of letters, official and private, which the captain had written during the night, the incriminating papers found upon the spy.  That gentleman had slept through the night in an adjoining tent, unguarded.  Both, having breakfasted, were now smoking.

“Mr. Brune,” said Captain Hartroy, “you probably do not understand why I recognized you in your disguise, nor how I was aware of your name.”

“I have not sought to learn, Captain,” the prisoner said with quiet dignity.

“Nevertheless I should like you to know—­if the story will not offend.  You will perceive that my knowledge of you goes back to the autumn of 1861.  At that time you were a private in an Ohio regiment—­a brave and trusted soldier.  To the surprise and grief of your officers and comrades you deserted and went over to the enemy.  Soon afterward you were captured in a skirmish, recognized, tried by court-martial and sentenced to be shot.  Awaiting the execution of the sentence you were confined, unfettered, in a freight car standing on a side track of a railway.”