And if not he—­who then?  His mind went back bitterly to the old days of the conspiracy—­to the inception of that struggle which was bearing such ghastly fruit.  He thought of his traitorous wife, until he felt his cheeks tingle, and he was fain to avert his eyes from those of his prostrate comrades, in a strange fear that, with the clairvoyance of dying men, they should read his secret.

It was past midnight when, without undressing, he threw himself upon his bed in the little convent-like cell to snatch a few moments of sleep.  Its spotless, peaceful walls and draperies affected him strangely, as if he had brought into its immaculate serenity the sanguine stain of war.  He was awakened suddenly from a deep slumber by an indefinite sense of alarm.  His first thought was that he had been summoned to repel an attack.  He sat up and listened; everything was silent except the measured tread of the sentry on the gravel walk below.  But the door was open.  He sprang to his feet and slipped into the gallery in time to see the tall figure of a woman glide before the last moonlit window at its farthest end.  He could not see her face—­but the characteristic turbaned head of the negro race was plainly visible.

He did not care to follow her or even to alarm the guard.  If it were the spy or one of her emissaries, she was powerless now to do any harm, and under his late orders and the rigorous vigilance of his sentinels she could not leave the lines—­or, indeed, the house.  She probably knew this as well as he did; it was, therefore, no doubt only an accidental intrusion of one of the servants.  He re-entered the room, and stood for a few moments by the window, looking over the moonlit ridge.  The sounds of distant cannon had long since ceased.  Wide awake, and refreshed by the keen morning air, which alone of all created things seemed to have shaken the burden of the dreadful yesterday from its dewy wings, he turned away and lit a candle on the table.  As he was rebuckling his sword belt he saw a piece of paper lying on the foot of the bed from which he had just risen.  Taking it to the candle, he read in a roughly scrawled hand: 

“You are asleep when you should be on the march.  You have no time to lose.  Before daybreak the supports of the column you have been foolishly resisting will be upon you.—­From one who would save you, but hates your cause.”

A smile of scorn passed his lips.  The handwriting was unknown and evidently disguised.  The purport of the message had not alarmed him; but suddenly a suspicion flashed upon him—­that it came from Miss Faulkner!  She had failed in her attempt to pass through the enemy’s lines—­or she had never tried to.  She had deceived him—­or had thought better of her chivalrous impulse, and now sought to mitigate her second treachery by this second warning.  And he had let her messenger escape him!

He hurriedly descended the stairs.  The sound of voices was approaching him.  He halted, and recognized the faces of the brigade surgeon and one of his aides-de-camp.