“It is certain that he has gone, madam, and it is likely he was a spy!” “That boy—that mere child! Why, he didn’t look to be more than sixteen years old!” “Madam, some of the men say _now_ that they don’t believe he was a boy at all, but a woman in disguise.” “Nonsense! What absurd notions they take in their heads.” “It is only some of them, ma’am. There are others that think he is one of Rosenthal’s men. Now that his disappearance has set people to thinking and talking, there is one says he is the image of an orderly he saw with Major Rosenthal.” “Yes; doubtless every one of you will have a reminiscence, or a suspicion, or an inspiration regarding the poor lad! What does your colonel say?” “He says nothing; he acts. He has sent out men in pursuit of the boy, with orders to bring him back, dead or alive!” “Oh, Heavens! when will these horrors cease!” groaned Alberta, wringing her hands. “The colonel sent me here to take my orders from you, madam,” said the man, suggestively. “Yes, yes, yes,” answered Alberta, absently, passing her hand to and fro over her forehead. “Can’t I do anything for you, madam?” inquired Haddycraff, after a few minutes of silence and inactivity. “Yes!——Oh, I am so sorry to hear what you told me about that poor boy——Yes, I want something additional prepared for our guest’s breakfast.—I do not believe that he is a spy!——Anything will do. Dress a chicken, or a partridge, or anything you may have handy, and bring it in.——He was weary of the hardships of his life, and wanted to go home. Deserter he may be, but spy never! What do you think, Haddycraff?” “I think, ma’am, as he has only been with us five days he hasn’t had time to get tired of us; and we can none of us account for his sudden disappearance upon any other ground than that of his having been a spy. However, if the boys find him and bring him in alive, we shall get to the bottom of the mystery; for you know how the colonel can sift a spy first and hang him afterwards.” “Heaven of Heavens, yes!” “Anything else, ma’am, if you please?” “Yes——Poor boy! can it be possible?—You may bring me a table and a clean table cloth. Bring them to the door and rap. I will take them in.” “That is all, ma’am?” “Yes—go.” The man left the door, but the guerrilla’s wife stood like one in a maze. “Poor, poor lad,” she murmured. “He will have not the slightest chance of escape. They will hunt him with that pair of Siberian bloodhounds, I suppose. Yet if he _is_ a spy, I shall rejoice at his being taken; for if it were possible for him to escape, he might—yes, he might betray Corsoni to death. Yes, I shall rejoice when he is taken! Yet I will plead for his life as I never pleaded for a life before!” She was interrupted by the arrival of the table at the door, and she went and took it in, laid the cloth, and arranged the camp breakfast service on it.