“I will not lengthen out my story, colonel. I see Alibi coming back. I had scarcely exchanged ten words with Swartz, when I heard the gallop of a horse, and running to the window, saw _that woman_ get off. A second’s reflection told me that she was coming into the house; I knew that, if discovered, I would be shot or taken prisoner--and I decided on my course in a minute. I said to Swartz, ‘wait a few hours--I will go and bring you help.’ I glided through a back window, dropped to the ground, ran into the bushes--and here I am, colonel, waiting for night to come, to return and rescue Swartz.” “Can you do so?” “With one companion--to look out while I pick the lock.” “Good--I’ll go with you; and provide for contingencies, too.” I had seen a cavalryman passing along the road in front of the house, and as Mr. Alibi came in at the same moment, I sent him to hail the wayfarer, and bring him to the house. As soon as Mr. Alibi had left us on his errand, I tore a sheet from my note-book, obtained from Nighthawk an exact description of the locality where Swartz was confined, and writing a note to Mohun, informed him of our intention. If he could send a squadron of cavalry to drive in the picket near the house, it would insure the success of our design, I added. As I finished this note, Mr. Alibi appeared with the cavalryman. He proved to belong to Mohun’s command. I entrusted the note to him, cautioning him that it was important, and must reach Mohun promptly--then I looked at my watch. It was four o’clock. Already the sun was declining toward the wooded horizon; I looked toward it, and then at Nighthawk, who nodded. “In an hour, colonel,” he said, “and as I am broken down, I will sleep.” With these words, Nighthawk leaned back in his split-bottom chair, covered his face with his handkerchief, and in ten seconds his long, quiet breathing showed plainly that he was asleep. “A cur’ous man, leftenant-colonel! a cur’ous man is Mr. Nighthawk!” said Mr. Alibi. And he flapped his arms, and wriggled about in a manner so extraordinary that he looked more like a penguin than ever. XXVIII. BIRDS OF PREY. Night came on. I left my horse at Mr. Alibi’s; set off on foot with Nighthawk; crossed the Rowanty, separating the opposing pickets, by a moss-covered log, in a shadowy nook, and was approaching the house in which Swartz was shut up. Nighthawk moved with the stealthy and gliding step of a wildcat. I could see the man was a born scout; intended by nature for the calling he had adopted--secret service. He scarcely uttered a word; when he did, it was in tones so low that they were lost in the whisper of the wind, amid the great trailing vines depending from the trees, and I was compelled to lean my ear close to catch the words. Fifty paces from the bank, a shadowy object on horseback was visible by the dim light. “The vedette,” murmured Nighthawk, “but he need not see us.”