“You are laughing at me, general,” said the young man timidly. “Well, my laughter won’t hurt you, Davenant. I never joke with people I don’t like. But to business. The enemy are going to attack me, Surry. Get ready, I am going to move.” “Ready, general.” “All right!--Hagan!” “General!” The voice came like an echo. Then at the door appeared the gigantic, black-bearded Lieutenant Hagan, chief of the general’s escort. Have you forgotten him, my dear reader?--his huge figure, his mighty beard, the deep thunder of his tones? I showed you the brave soldier in 1861 and ‘62. In 1863 his beard was heavier, his voice more like thunder--when the giant walked along he seemed to shake the ground. “I am going to move in half an hour, Hagan,” said Stuart, still writing busily. “Head-quarters will be established on Fleetwood Hill, beyond Brandy; my horse!” Hagan saluted and vanished without uttering a word. In five minutes the camp was buzzing, and “Lady Margaret” was led up. “Come on, Surry! Come on, Davenant! I will beat you to the Court-House!” And Stuart buckled on his sword, drew on his gauntlets, and mounted his horse. I was beside him. Not to be ready when Stuart was--was to be left behind. He waited for nobody. His staff soon learned that. As Davenant’s horse was awaiting him, he was as prompt as Stuart desired. In a minute we were all three riding at full speed toward the village. Stuart was playing with his glove, which he had taken off and dangled to and fro. His brows were knit, and he was reflecting. We did not interrupt him, and in ten minutes we were all clattering over the main street of the hamlet. Stuart pushed on by the tavern, without pausing, in the direction of Fleetwood, when just as he reached the eastern suburbs of the town a small one-horse wagon, leaving the place, attracted his attention. There was just sufficient light to make out the figures in the wagon. There were two. One was a portly and plainly clad old countryman, with a prominent nose, a double chin, and fat hands decorated with pinchbeck rings. Beside him sat an old woman, as fat as himself, wearing a faded calico gown, a “coal-scuttle” bonnet, and a huge ruffled cap beneath. Stuart looked keenly at the wagon, called to the driver to halt, and demanded whither he was going, and on what business. The old countryman smiled. The question seemed to strike him as absurd, and his explanation was simple and calculated to remove all suspicion. He stated that his name was Brown--that he lived near the village; had brought in a load of vegetables to sell, on the preceding evening--some friends had persuaded him and “his old woman” to spend the night, and they were now going home. Stuart peered under the coal-scuttle bonnet. “And this is your ‘old woman’ my friend,” he said with a laugh. “Jest so, sir,” was the wheezy reply of the fat old countryman, smiling sweetly. “You see she would come along, sir. Womankind is mighty contrary!”