He looked back. No sign yet of the guerrillas. He had been too far away from the larger cavalry column, he knew, for any of its riders to distinguish himself or his uniform. The thick woods still closed in the road on either side. Dad looked for a likely spot to penetrate the forest. But on both sides of the road a high snake-fence arose, a fence too high for any horse to jump. There would be no time to dismount, tear down a panel of the fence, lead his horse through, and repair the gap so that the guerrillas’ sharp eyes would not detect the recent break. So on he galloped, hoping for a gate or a lane farther ahead. With a deal of wriggling Dad got his right arm out of his jacket and managed to wind the jacket itself roughly around his left arm, that a trail of bloodspots on the road’s dust might not mark his path to his pursuers. Around another bend swept the galloping roan. And now both forest and snake-fence stopped abruptly, to continue a furlong farther on. The intervening space was filled by a soft, green lawn dotted with trees, and cut off from the road by a four-foot stone wall. Far back on the lawn and bowered by oaks stood a rambling house of colonial style. On its pillared front porch sat the littlest and daintiest woman imaginable. She was in black and wore a little, frilled, white apron. Her grayish hair formed a mass of soft curls around her forehead. On her lap was a basket of knitting. All these details Dad’s eyes saw without fairly grasping them as he galloped into view. And his heart sank. He had heard of Southern women’s splendid loyalty to “the cause.” This woman would assuredly tell his pursuers that she had seen a man in Yankee uniform ride past. She would add that he was very palpably wounded. Thus would die his last hope that they might give extra time by pausing to beat up the woods for him. Dad was turning away from his fleeting glance to scan the road ahead for a lane or other opening, when suddenly he shifted his gaze in astonishment back toward the white-columned portico. The little woman had sprung to her feet with the agility of a child and was waving her knitting to him in frantic summons. He had traversed fully half the length of the cleared lawn’s space as he saw the signal. Acting on lightning instinct, he reined in his mount, wheeled him to one side, and put him at the wall. The roan, with a mighty effort, cleared the obstacle, came down heavily on all fours on the springy turf of the lawn, and bounded toward the house. The little lady had run down the steps and was jumping up and down in wild excitement in the driveway. “Tumble off, quick!” she ordered. “Get into the hall there and shut the door behind you. I’ll tie your horse in that magnolia copse over yonder. It’s so thick-grown I guess they’d hunt a week before suspicioning a critter was hid there.”