“_You_ are not wounded, at least. What the devil do you mean by coming within our lines?” fiercely demanded the leader. “I came to succor my colonel, and to share his fate,” answered Britomarte, firmly. “Brave boy! what is your rank among the clock peddlers?” laughed the leader. “I am a soldier in the United States army,” proudly replied Britomarte. “Of what grade?” “I decline to answer.” “You see ‘soldier’ is rather a comprehensive term. General Grant is a soldier—” “Oh, you’ve found that out, have you?” said Britomarte, derisively. —“And every private in his army is a soldier—” —“Thanks. You are giving us great praise,” laughed Britomarte. —“I mean, of course, as to name. _You_ are a soldier, and I ask you of what grade?” “And I decline to answer your question.” “All right; it is your own affair. Only if you call yourself simply a soldier, you will be treated _as_ a soldier; that is to say, you will be put in the lowest part of the prison, and fed upon the poorest rations. The officers have better accommodations.” Britomarte trembled, not at the certainty of foul food and fouler lodging, but at the prospect of being separated from Justin. So she answered— “As I do not wish to be divided from my colonel, I will acknowledge that I am a commissioned officer of the line, as you may see for yourself in my dark blue uniform.” “What is your name, and precise rank?” “I decline to answer.” “The fact is, you are a spy, but your reserve will not save you! Here, Pettigru! take his arms, guard him, and march him after the other prisoner!” said the leader. Britomarte gave up her sword, dagger and revolver, and marched between two rebel soldiers, after the stretcher upon which four other soldiers were bearing Justin off from the field. The leader was about to leave the spot with the remainder of the party, when he heard a weak voice calling— “Sergeant!” “Well, who are you? what’s the matter?” “One of your company—wounded in the hip. Don’t you think you could send a stretcher and have me taken off the field?” “I’ll see. We are picking up all we can without getting too near the Yankee lines. Those devils never sleep! and we are expecting the battle to be renewed in the morning. However, I’ll attend to your case.” “Sergeant!” “Well, what now.” “You have taken two prisoners?” “Yes; what then?” “One was a Yankee Colonel?” “Colonel Rosenthal—yes, what of it?” “Why the other one, Sergeant, was—was his sweetheart.” “Eh?” “His sweetheart, Sergeant.” “How do you know that?” “Laying here in the bushes quite near them, but out of their sight, I overheard their talk—not all of it, nor half of it, for they spoke in a low tone—but I overheard enough to know that she is his sweetheart, and has served with him, disguised as a soldier, for the last year or so, and that she _is_ a commissioned officer.”