“No,” I said, earnestly, “I don’t! But in heaven’s name why did they not tell me? I am known to the Commander-in-Chief, I have some small influence. I could at least make inquiries for them. Do they suppose that after the treatment I have received at Captain Wilmer’s hands—though it be no more than the laws of war require—do they suppose that I would not do what I could?” He looked at me a little quizzically, a little sorrowfully. “I am afraid,” he said, “that all British officers—and all British sympathizers—are not like you. They have come here to deal with rebels.” His face grew stern. “They forget that their grandsires were rebels a hundred years ago, their great grandsires thirty years before—and rebels on much the same grounds. They think that nothing becomes them but severity. Ah, we have had bitter experiences, Major Craven, and I do not deny it, some nobles ones! Your Lord Cornwallis means well, but he has much to learn, and he has made big mistakes.” I evaded that. “I will write at once,” I said. He raised his head sharply. “No!” he replied. “I am afraid, I must put an embargo on that. I have to think of Wilmer, and—” He checked himself. “He does not want a troop of horse to pay him a visit,” he added, rather lamely. “Of course, I should not say where I was,” I answered, a little piqued. “Captain Wilmer may see the letter.” “Of necessity,” Marion rejoined dryly. “But there are circumstances”—he hesitated—“this is a peculiar case, and I can run no risks. There must be no writing, Major Craven. I will see that news of your safety is sent in to Winnsboro’.” “Lord Cornwallis is at Charlotte.” “He was,” Marion replied with a smile. “But your affair at King’s Mountain has touched him in a tender place, and yesterday he was reported to be falling back on Winnsboro’ as fast as he could. In any case, word shall be sent to his quarters wherever they are, that you are wounded, and in safe hands. That will meet your wishes?” “I am afraid it must,” I said grudgingly. “If you insist?” “I do,” he said. “It may seem harsh, but I have reasons. I have reasons. It is a peculiar case. And now, good-bye, sir. In a month I hope to travel north with you.” “Or rather I with you,” I said, sighing. “It’s the fortune of war,” he replied with a shrug, and that alert movement of the hands which sometimes betrayed his French origin. “Wilmer is going with me to-day, but he will return to-morrow or the next day. Then you will have company.”