But Marcy—Rodney began to believe now that it was really his cousin Marcy who had come to him in this strange way, though he never would have suspected it if the officer had not told him so—did not even whisper a reply. He never moved a finger, but lay motionless where Rodney had placed him. He was so still, his face was so white, and his faint breath came at so long intervals that Rodney feared he was already past such help as he could give him; and it was not until half a bucket of water had been dashed into his face, a cupful at a time, that he began showing any signs of life. Then he put his arms around his cousin’s neck and drew the latter’s tanned face close to his own white one; but it was very little strength he could put into the embrace. “O Rodney, I am so tired,” he said, in a scarcely audible whisper. “It’s a wonder you are not dead,” replied his cousin in a choking voice. “I never thought to see you again, but you are all right now. Every Yank in this country is my friend.” “Then look out for Charley, and don’t let them hurt him,” whispered Marcy, for he was too weak to talk. “They haven’t been very civil to us, for they think we are spies sent out to draw them into ambush.” “You look like it, I must say,” exclaimed Rodney. “But who is Charley?” “Charley Bowen, my partner; the man who escaped when I did, and who has stuck to me like a brother through it all. He knows the country, and if it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have got ten miles from the stockade. Give me a big drink of water, and then go out and say a good word for him. Bring him in if they will let you.” After Marcy had drained the cup that was held to his lips Rodney hastened out to see what he could do for Charley, and to secure his papers, which were worth more than their weight in gold to him. He found them on the gallery where the lieutenant had left them, and the lieutenant himself was in the back yard looking on while one of the soldiers shifted his saddle from his broken-down beast to the back of one of Rodney’s plough-mules, all of which had been brought in from the field. “A fair exchange is no robbery, Johnny,” said the officer, as Rodney approached him. “And besides, you get the butt end of this trade. My mule is bigger than yours, and will be better and stronger after he has had a rest and a chance to fill out.” “What are you going to do with those conscripts?” inquired Rodney. “I haven’t orders to do anything with them,” answered the lieutenant. “But of course I am expected to take them to Baton Rouge and turn them over to the provost marshal.” “Why can’t you leave them here with me? I will look out for them.” “And you a discharged rebel? You’re a cool one, Johnny.”