only by a ribbon around her swelling throat, and her loosened hair lay in a black rippled loop on one shoulder.  For an instant Brant thought that she was seeking him in indignation at his order, but a second look at her set face, eager eyes, and parted scarlet lips, showed him that she had not even noticed him in the concentration of her purpose.  She swept by him into the hall, he heard the swish of her skirt and rapid feet on the stairs,—­she was gone.  What had happened, or was this another of her moods?

But he was called to himself by the apparition of a corporal standing before him, with the mulatto woman,—­the first capture under his order.  She was tall, well-formed, but unmistakably showing the negro type, even in her small features.  Her black eyes were excited, but unintelligent; her manner dogged, but with the obstinacy of half-conscious stupidity.  Brant felt not only disappointed, but had a singular impression that she was not the same woman that he had first seen.  Yet there was the tall, graceful figure, the dark profile, and the turbaned head that he had once followed down the passage by his room.

Her story was as stupidly simple.  She had known “Missy” from a chile!  She had just traipsed over to see her that afternoon; they were walking together when the sojers stopped her.  She had never been stopped before, even by “the patter rollers."* Her old massa (Manly) had gib leaf to go see Miss Tilly, and hadn’t said nuffin about no “orders.”

     * i. e., patrols,—­a civic home-guard in the South that kept
     surveillance of slaves.

More annoyed than he cared to confess, Brant briefly dismissed her with a warning.  As he cantered down the slope the view of the distant pickets recalled the window in the wing, and he turned in his saddle to look at it.  There it was—­the largest and most dominant window in that part of the building—­and within it, a distinct and vivid object almost filling the opening, was the vase of flowers, which he had a few hours ago removed, restored to its original position!  He smiled.  The hurried entrance and consternation of Miss Faulkner were now fully explained.  He had interrupted some impassioned message, perhaps even countermanded some affectionate rendezvous beyond the lines.  And it seemed to settle the fact that it was she who had done the signaling!  But would not this also make her cognizant of the taking of the dispatch-box?  He reflected, however, that the room was apparently occupied by the mulatto woman—­he remembered the calico dresses and turban on the bed—­and it was possible that Miss Faulkner had only visited it for the purpose of signaling to her lover.  Although this circumstance did not tend to make his mind easier, it was, however, presently diverted by a new arrival and a strange recognition.