The officer dismounted. He was a tall man, wrapped, though the night was warm, in a grey horseman’s cloak. “You are tremendously careful to-night! I suppose my horse may follow me? He doesn’t stand well.” “Fasten him to the sapling beside you.—Advance and give the countersign.” The tall man came up, revealing, beneath a grey hat pulled low, a tanned countenance with long mustaches. “_Ivry._ I’ll tell General Stuart that you are about the most cautious picket he’s got. I remember having to convince just such another when I was in Texas in ’43—” “Did you convince him?” “I did. The word is _Ivry_. Allow me to pass.” “Be so good first as to open your cloak. It is too warm to wear it so.” “My man, you are on your way to the guardhouse. Messengers from General Lee are not accustomed—_What is that?_” “Nothing. I was humming a line of an old carol. Do you remember the road to Frederick?” Dead silence, then a movement of Marchmont’s hand beneath the cloak. Cleave divined, and was upon him. Not so tall, but more powerfully built and a master wrestler, the tug of war was a short one. The pistol, wrenched from the Englishman’s grasp, fell to the ground and was kicked away. The two struggling figures swung round until Marchmont was nearer the sycamore, Cleave between him and the horse. Another fierce instant and the Englishman was thrown—the picket’s rifle covered him. “I regret it,” said Cleave, “but it can’t be helped. I wish that some other had been sent in your place.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Picket two! A prisoner. Send guard!” There came back a faint “All right! Hold on!” Marchmont sat up and picked the leaves from his clothing. “Well, I have thought of you more than once, and wished that we might meet again! Not precisely under such auspices as these, but under others. I was obliged to you, I remember, that day at Front Royal.” “It was a personal matter then, in which I might indulge my own inclination. To-night I regret that it is not a personal matter.” “Exactly. Well, I bear you no grudge. ‘Fortune of war!’ At Front Royal you were a colonel leading a charge—may I ask why I find you playing sentry?” “That is a long story,” said Cleave. “I am sorry that I should be your captor, and it is entirely within your right to deny the request I am going to make. I am Philip Deaderick, a private soldier. I ask you to forget that I ever had another name.” “All right, Philip Deaderick, private soldier!” said Marchmont. “Whatever may be your reasons, I won’t blab. I liked you very well on the road to Frederick, and very well that day at Front Royal.—To-night was just a cursed fanfaronade. Knew you must all be hereabouts. Crossed over to see what I could see, got the word and this damned cloak and hat from a spy, and ambled at once into the arms of a man who could recognize me! Absurd! And here comes the guard.”