I talked with General Fitz Lee for an hour nearly, recalling the old days with Stuart, who had loved and confided in him more than in any other living man. It was a beautiful friendship, indeed, and each understood the value of the other as man and soldier. Stuart is dead, and can not give his testimony; but General Fitz Lee is alive, and can give his. Here and there a voice still denies Stuart’s genius as a commander. Ask his friend who survives; and if tears do not choke the voice, you will learn the real rank of Stuart! But I can not linger on these scenes. The narrative draws on. I mounted my horse, after shaking hands with General Fitz Lee and his brave staff, and, for the first time, remembered to ask, “Where was Tom Herbert?” At that question, a beaming smile came to every countenance. “Done for!” said one. “Captured!” laughed another. “Demoralized, subjugated, and negotiating with the enemy!” said a third. “Well, where is the place of meeting--where are the terms being arranged?” I said. “At a place called Disaways, on the lower Rowanty!” “Good! I know the road there,” I said. And with a laugh, which the general and his gay cavaliers echoed, I touched my gray with the spur, and set out toward the south. XII. BY A FIRE IN THE WOODS. I pushed on, having resolved, after finishing my duties, to visit Disaways. Soon Dinwiddie Court-House came in sight. I entered the small village, and looked attentively--as I had done on more than one occasion before--at the locality which General Davenant’s narrative had surrounded with so strange an interest. There was the old tavern, with its long portico, where Darke had held his orgies, and from which he had set forth on his errand of robbery and murder. There was the county jail, in which General Davenant had insisted upon being confined, and where so many friends had visited him. There was the old court-house, in which he had been tried for the murder of George Conway; and I fancied I could distinguish upon one of the shutters, the broken bolt which Darke had forced, more than ten years before, in order to purloin the knife with which the crime had been committed. For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!--and the drama had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts “an interval of ten years is supposed to pass.” There was the stage direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief. He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman, with whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was true, but the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at any moment, recommence her _diablerie_. Had she found that paper--or had Mohun found it? In any event, she was dangerous--more so, even, than her male companion--that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in the road--that prince of surprises and tragic “appearances!”