Mohun’s expression was singular as he uttered these words. The prisoner looked at him as he was speaking with an indescribable smile. I can only compare it to that of the swordsman about to deliver a mortal lunge. “My brother,” she said, in accents as soft as a flute; “detained elsewhere, do you say, sir? You are mistaken in supposing so. He commanded the cavalry with which you were fighting to-night!” At these words, uttered in a strange, mocking voice, I saw Mohun start as if a rattlesnake had bitten his heel. With all his self-possession he could not restrain this exhibition of emotion. “Impossible! You are deceiving me--” The prisoner interrupted him with a gay laugh. “So you do not believe me,” she said; “you think, my dear sir, that everybody is dead but yourself! Dismiss that idea from your mind! _I_ am not dead, since we have the pleasure of again meeting in the flesh. _He_ is not dead! No! it was Colonel Mortimer Darke whom you fought to-night. This is his horse which I borrowed to take a short ride. I have been captured, but _he_ is neither dead nor captured, and you will doubtless receive some friendly message from him soon.” Under the mocking accents and the satirical glance, it was easy to read profound hatred. The speaker could not hide that. At that moment she resembled a tigress about to spring. Mohun had listened with absorbing attention as his companion spoke; but, as on the first occasion, he speedily suppressed his agitation. His face was now as cold and unmoved as though moulded of bronze. “So be it, madam,” he said; “I will respond as I best can to such message as he may send me. For yourself, you know me well, and, I am glad to see, indulge no apprehensions. The past is dead; let it sleep. You think this interview is painful to me. You deceive yourself, madam; I would not exchange it for all the wealth of two hemispheres.” And calling an officer, he said:-- “You will conduct this lady to General Stuart, reporting the circumstances attending her capture.” Mohun made a ceremonious bow to the prisoner as he spoke, saluted me in the same manner, and mounting his horse, rode back at the head of his column. The prisoner, escorted by the young officer, and still riding her fine horse, had already disappeared in the darkness. V. STUART. An hour afterward, I had delivered my message to Mordaunt, and was returning by the road over Fleetwood Hill, thinking of the singular dialogue between Mohun and the gray woman. What had these worthies meant by their mysterious allusions? How had Mohun found himself face to face on this stormy night, with two human beings whom he thought dead? These questions puzzled me for half an hour; then I gave up the mystery, laughing. An hour afterward I had passed through Culpeper Court-House, crossed the fields, and had reached General Stuart’s headquarters.