The collar of Swartz was still in his clutch. He seemed determined to bear him off at the risk of being himself captured; for a second glance showed me that a party of Confederate cavalry was rushing headlong toward the house, led by an officer whom I made out to be Mohun. Darke saw that the small force on picket could not contend with the attacking party. By the starlight, I could see his face, as he glared over his shoulder at Mohun, whom he had evidently recognized. An expression of profound hate was in that glance; a hoarse growl issued from his lips; and I distinguished the low words addressed to Swartz, whom he was dragging on beside his horse. “So, you are rescued, you think! You have laid this trap for me, jailbird!” He drew his pistol as he spoke, and placed it close to the unhappy man’s temple. I had mine in my hand, and, aiming at Darke, fired. It was too late. The bullet did not strike him; and the report of his own weapon followed that of mine like an echo. Swartz staggered back, threw up his hands, and uttering a wild cry, fell at full length upon the ground. The scene which followed was as brief as this tragedy. Mohun charged, at the head of his men, and drove the picket force before him. In five minutes the whole party were dispersed, or captured. Darke had escaped with the gray woman, in the darkness. The pursuit did not continue far. The Federal lines were near; and Mohun soon recalled his men. Grasping me cordially by the hand, he exclaimed:-- “Well, Surry! the prisoner! Where is Swartz?” I pointed to the spot where his body lay, and went thither with Mohun. Swartz lay perfectly dead, in a pool of blood. Darke had blown out his brains. XXXIII. PRESTON HAMPTON. An hour afterward the body of the unfortunate man had been buried, and I had returned with Mohun and Nighthawk to the opposite bank of the Rowanty. I had never seen Mohun so gloomy. He scarcely uttered a word during the whole march back; and when I announced my intention to spend the night at the house of Mr. Alibi, as the long tramp had wearied me out, he scarcely invited me to his head-quarters, and when I declined, did not urge me. Something evidently weighed heavily on the mind of Mohun, and a few moment’s reflection explained the whole to me. He had conversed rapidly and apart with Nighthawk near the lonely house; and his gloom had dated from that conversation. Nighthawk had evidently explained every thing: the cause of Swartz’s imprisonment; his statement in reference to the paper--and now that Swartz was dead, the hiding-place of the document seemed forever undiscoverable. If the reader does not understand the terrible significance of this fact, and Mohun’s consequent gloom, I promise that he shall comprehend all before very long. Mohun returned to his camp, and I remained at the house of Mr. Alibi until morning, stretched on a lounge, and wrapped in my cape.