"Every nook and corner of it. They don't keep their eyes skinned, I fancy, up there. Your fancy colonels have slippery tongues when the champagne corks are flying. If they fight as hard as they drink, they'll give us trouble. Well, what do you calculate to do?" he added, after a pause, during which Philip was moody and lost in thought. Philip rose from his seat and paced the floor uneasily, while Rawbon filled a glass from a flask of brandy on the table. It was now quite dark without, and neither of them observed the figure of a woman crouched on the narrow veranda, her chin resting on the sill of the open window. At last Philip resumed his seat, and he, too, swallowed a deep draught from the flask of brandy. "Tell me what I can count upon?" he asked. "The same grade you have, and in a crack regiment. It's no use asking for money. They've none to spare for such as you--now don't look savage--I mean they won't buy men that hain't seen service, and you can't expect them to. I told you all about that before, and it's time you had your mind made up." "What proofs of good faith can you give me?" Rawbon thrust his hand into his bosom and drew out a roll of parchment. "This commission, under Gen. Beauregard's hand, to be approved when you report yourself at headquarters." Philip took the document and read it attentively, while Rawbon occupied himself with filling his pipe from a leathern pouch. The female figure stepped in at the window, and, gliding noiselessly into the room, seated herself in a third chair by the table before either of the men became aware of her presence. They started up with astonishment and consternation. She did not seem to heed them, but leaning upon the table, she stretched her hand to the brandy flask and applied it to her lips. "Who's this?" demanded Rawbon, with his hand upon the hilt of his large bowie knife. "Curse her! my evil genius," answered Philip, grating his teeth with anger. It was Moll. "What's this, Philip!" she said, clutching the parchment which had been dropped upon the table. "Leave that," ejaculated her husband, savagely, and darting to take it from her. But she eluded his grasp, and ran with the document into a corner of the room. "Ha! ha! ha! I know what it is," she said, waving it about as a schoolboy sometimes exultingly exhibits a toy that he has mischievously snatched from a comrade. "It's your death-warrant, Philip Searle, if somebody sees it over yonder. I heard you. I heard you. You're going over to fight for Jeff. Davis. Well, I don't care, but I'll go with you. Don't come near me. Don't hurt me, Philip, or I'll scream to the soldier out there." "I won't hurt you, Moll. Be quiet now, there's a good girl. Come here and take a sup more of brandy."