“It's Red Lowrie,” I said gravely, more impressed than ever with the seriousness of the situation. “I heard of him two years ago--he killed a man in the Sixth North Carolina, and took to the hills. Since then he has developed into quite a leader for such scum, and has proven himself a merciless monster. You have no suggestion to offer as to how we had better attempt to get in?” He shook his head despondingly. “What station does Brennan defend?” I asked. “The front of the house; the main point of attack has been there.” We could distinguish the sound of firing by this time, and its continuous volume convinced me that Caton's estimate of the number engaged was not greatly overdrawn. As we topped the summit of the hill a great burst of red fire leaped suddenly high into the sky. “Great God, Wayne! we are too late!” he cried wildly. “Those devils have fired the house.” With fiercely throbbing heart I gazed down at the flames far below in the black valley. “No,” I said with eager relief. “It is the stable which is ablaze. See, the light falls full upon the white sides of the house. Thank Heaven, we are not too late.” As I sat my horse there, gazing down upon that scene of black rapine, unwilling to venture into its midst until I could formulate some definite plan of action, fully a dozen wild schemes thronged into my brain, only to be cast aside, one after another, as thoroughly impracticable. “We shall have to make a dash for it, and trust in God,” said Caton, guessing at my dilemma. “No,” I answered firmly, “there would be no possibility of success in such a course. Those fellows are old hands, and have pickets out. See, Caton, that is certainly a picket-fire yonder where the road dips. Every man of us would be shot down before we penetrated those guard lines and attained the house. We have got to reach their inner line someway through strategy, and even then must risk being fired upon by our own people before we get within cover.” Even as I was speaking I evolved a plan of action--desperate it certainly was, yet nothing better occurred to me, and time was golden. “Ebers,” I said, “didn't I see an extra jacket strapped back of your saddle?” “It is no good,” he protested vehemently. “It vos for der rain come.” “All right; hand it over to the Lieutenant here. Caton, throw that uniform coat of yours into the ditch, and don honest gray for once. Sands, come here. Take your knife and cut away every symbol of rank on my jacket; tear it off, any way you can.” In another moment these necessary changes had been accomplished. “Now,” I ordered, “pile your sabres there with mine beside the road; then hobble your horses, all but the mule; I shall want him.” “Does we go der rest of der vay on foot?” questioned the Sergeant, anxiously. “Certainly; and I desire you to remember one important thing: let me do the talking, but if any of you are asked questions, we are deserters from Hills's corps, tired of the war.”