The old man trembled with excitement like a boy going into his first battle.

“Ah, if you could—­if you could!” he cried.  “But ’tis too late, now.  Listen:  his present camp is but three miles to the westward on Buffalo Creek.  I was there no longer ago than the Wednesday.  I—­I made my submission to him—­curse him—­so that I might mayhap learn of his plans.  He told me all; how that now he was safe; that the mountaineers were gone off from the fording of the Broad on a false scent; that Tarleton with four hundred of the legion would soon be marching to his relief.

“I stole away when I could, and that night took horse and rode twenty miles to Tom Sumter’s camp at Flint Hill—­all to little purpose, I fear.  Poor Tom is still desperately sick of his Fishing Creek wounds, and Colonel Lacey was the only officer fit to go after Shelby and the mountain men to set them straight.  I should have gone myself, but—­”

“Stay, my good friend,” said I; “you go too fast for me.  If Ferguson is still out of communication with the main at Charlotte, we may halt him yet.”

The old man made a gesture of impatience.

“’Tis a thing done because it is as good as done.  The major will break camp and march to-morrow morning, and he can reach Charlotte at ease in two days.  What with their losing of his trail, the mountain men are those same two days behind him.”

“None the less, we shall halt him,” said I.  “Have you ever an inkhorn and a quill in your cabin?”

“Both; at your service, sir.  But I can not understand—­”

“We may call it the little maid’s judgment on those who have made her fatherless.  But for her stopping of me I should have come unprepared into the camp of the enemy.  I am the bearer of a letter from Lord Cornwallis to this same Major Ferguson.”

“You?—­a bearer of Lord Cornwallis’s despatches?” The old man put a blade’s length between us and held the little one aloft as if he feared I might do her a mischief.  I laughed and bade him be comforted.

“’Tis a long story, and I may not take the time to tell it now.  But a word will suffice.  Like yourself, I made my submission—­and for the same purpose.  My Lord accepted it and made me his despatch-bearer because he thought I knew the way to Ferguson when no one else knew it.  But enough of this; time presses.  Let me have ink and the quill.”

The old man led the way into the cabin and put his writing tools at my disposal.  Left to myself, I should have broken the seal of the packet; but my wise old ally, cool and collected now, showed me how to split the paper beneath the wax.  Opened and spread before us on the rude slab table, the letter proved to be the briefest of military commands:  a peremptory order to Ferguson to rejoin the main body at once, proceeding by forced marches if needful, and on no account to risk engagement with the over-mountain men.

How to change such an order to reverse it in effect, I knew no more than a yokel; but here again my ancient ally showed himself a man of parts.  Dressing the pen to make it the fellow of that used by my Lord Cornwallis, he scanned the handwriting of the letter closely, made a few practice pot-hooks to get the imitative hang of it, and wrote this postscriptum at the bottom of the sheet.