“It is nothing,” said Mrs. Dean, quietly.  “If you need anything, you will let me know.  I shall be waiting inside.”

She turned and a few moments later Chad saw Margaret’s white figure swiftly climb the stairs—­but the light still burned in the noiseless room below.

. . . . . .

Meanwhile Dan and Jerry Dillon were far across the fields on their way to rejoin Morgan.  When they were ten miles away, Dan, who was leading, turned.

“Jerry, that Lieutenant was an old friend of mine.  General Morgan used to say he was the best scout in the Union Army.  He comes from your part of the country, and his name is Chad Buford.  Ever heard of him?”

“I’ve knowed him sence he was a chunk of a boy, but I don’t rickollect ever hearin’ his last name afore.  I naver knowed he had any.”

“Well, I heard him call one of his men Jake—­and he looked exactly like you.”  The giant pulled in his horse.

“I’m goin’ back.”

“No, you aren’t,” said Dan; “not now—­it’s too late.  That’s why I didn’t tell you before.”  Then he added, angrily:  “You are a savage and you ought to be ashamed of yourself harboring such hatred against your own blood-brother.”

Dan was perhaps the only one of Morgan’s Men who would have dared to talk that way to the man, and Jerry Dillon took it only in sullen silence.

A mile farther they struck a pike, and, as they swept along, a brilliant light glared into the sky ahead of them, and they pulled in.  A house was in flames on the edge of a woodland, and by its light they could see a body of men dash out of the woods and across the field on horseback, and another body dash after them in pursuit—­the pursuers firing and the pursued sending back defiant yells.  Daws Dillon was at his work again, and the Yankees were after him.

. . . . . . .

Long after midnight Chad reported the loss of his prisoner.  He was much chagrined—­for failure was rare with him—­and his jaw and teeth ached from the blow Dan had given him, but in his heart he was glad that the boy had got away When he went to his tent, Harry was awake and waiting for him.

“It’s I who have escaped,” he said; “escaped again.  Four times now we have been in the same fight.  Somehow fate seems to be pointing always one way—­always one way.  Why, night after night, I dream that either he or I—­” Harry’s voice trembled—­he stopped short, and, leaning forward, stared out the door of his tent.  A group of figures had halted in front of the Colonel’s tent opposite, and a voice called, sharply: 

“Two prisoners, sir.  We captured ’em with Daws Dillon.  They are guerillas, sir.”

“It’s a lie, Colonel,” said an easy voice, that brought both Chad and Harry to their feet, and plain in the moonlight both saw Daniel Dean, pale but cool, and near him, Rebel Jerry Dillon—­both with their hands bound behind them.

CHAPTER 24.  A RACE BETWEEN DIXIE AND DAWN