“‘But for my part, I thank the Yankees for bestowing it. I should glory in the name of guerrilla,’ I said. “‘Ha, ha, ha! we have made it a terror to the clock-peddling heroes who have mistaken their vocation and come down here to fight us,’ chuckled Haddycraff. “‘To be a gallant guerrilla is the height of my ambition,’ I said. “‘Then how would you like service under the brave Free Sword?’ “‘The Free Sword!’ I exclaimed, with enthusiasm. ‘Oh, Heaven! I should think it almost too much glory to hope for, to live and die in the service of the great Free Sword!’ “‘And I tell you what, my boy, your ardent admiration of Colonel Corsoni is shared by at least one-half the youth in Virginia.’ “‘But the cursed Yankees who burned my father’s house were saying among themselves that the force of the Free Sword was entirely broken up and scattered to the four winds, and that it never could be re-organized,’ I said. “‘Ho, ho, ho! And that is all they know about it, laughed Haddycraff; ‘and if you choose to go with me, and take service under the Free Sword, you may know for yourself how little truth there is in those reports.’ “Well, my colonel, I agreed to accompany the guerrillas to the camp of their chief. And so, when they had feasted at the expense of the farm people, who were mostly women and negroes, and had loaded their mules with farm produce, for which they paid in veritable greenbacks, we all took the road through the woods for some miles, and then turned out of the road in the thickest depths of the pathless forest, and with no other guide than a pocket compass, found our way to the encampment of the Free Sword.” “And where was that?” “On an old deserted plantation in a clearing of that same forest. The approaches to the encampment were very strongly picketed. There was strict military discipline observed. We reached head quarters just as they were beating the reveillé, and in twenty minutes afterwards I was ushered into the presence of the Free Sword. A very handsome fellow is this celebrated guerrilla chief, my colonel, looking every inch a brigand leader, however, and reminding one strongly of ‘Fra Diavolo’ in the opera.” “Yes, yes—I know the personal appearance of Vittorio Corsoni. I knew him well in former days. He was a young Italian adventurer, and at the first opportunity took to the guerrilla life as naturally as a duck to water. How were you received by him?” “Very, very kindly. He bent those large, dark eyes so earnestly upon me while I was telling my piteous story of coming back to find a burning homestead and a murdered father, with his ‘hoary head all dabbled with his blood,’ that to escape his intense gaze I had to cover my face with my hands and take refuge behind a flood of tears. And then what do you think happened, Colonel?” “What?” “I felt the hand of the Free Sword laid gently on my head—gently as a woman’s hand—and I heard his voice, saying: