Far away among the hills the Special Messenger was riding through the night, head bent, tight-lipped, her dark eyes wet with tears. III ABSOLUTION Just before daylight the unshaven sentinels at headquarters halted her; a lank corporal arrived, swinging a lighted lantern, which threw a yellow radiance over horse and rider. Then she dismounted. Mud smeared her riding jacket; boots and skirt were clotted with it; so was the single army spur. Her horse stretched a glossy, sweating neck and rolled wisely-suspicious eyes at the dazzling light. On the gray saddle cloth glimmered three gilt letters, C. S. A. "What name, ma'am?" repeated the corporal, coming closer with lifted lantern, and passing an inquiring thumb over the ominous letters embroidered on the saddle cloth. "No name," she said. "They will understand--inside there." "That your hoss, ma'am?" "It seems to be." "Swap him with a Johnny?" "No; took him from a Johnny." "Shucks!" said the corporal, examining the gilt letters. Then, looking around at her: "Wa'll, the ginrall, he's some busy." "Please say that his messenger is here." "Orders is formuel, ma'am. I dassent----" She pronounced a word under her breath. "Hey?" She nodded. "Tain't _her_?" demanded the corporal incredulously. She nodded again. The corporal's lantern and jaw dropped in unison. "Speak low," she said, smiling. He leaned toward her; she drew nearer, inclining her pretty, disheveled head with its disordered braids curling into witchlocks on her shoulders. "'Tain't _the_ Special Messenger, ma'am, is it?" he inquired hoarsely. "The boys is tellin' how you was ketched down to----" She made him a sign for silence as the officer of the guard came up--an ill-tempered, heavily-bandaged young man. "What the ----" he began, but, seeing a woman's muddy skirt in the lantern light, checked his speech. The corporal whispered in his ear; both stared. "I guess it's all right," said the officer. "Won't you come in? The general is asleep; he's got half an hour more, but I'll wake him if you say so." "I can wait half an hour." "Take her horse," said the officer briefly, then led the way up the steps of a white porch buried under trumpet vines in heavy bloom. The door stood open, so did every window on the ground floor, for the July night was hot. A sentry stood inside the wide hall, resting on his rifle, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cap pushed back on his flushed young forehead. There was a candle burning in the room on the right; an old artillery officer leaned over the center table, asleep, round, red face buried in his arms, sabre tucked snugly between his legs, like the tail of a sleeping dog; an aide-de-camp slept heavily on a mahogany sofa, jacket unbuttoned, showing the white, powerful muscles of his chest, all glistening with perspiration. Beside the open window sat a thin figure in the uniform of a signal officer, and at first when the Special Messenger looked at him she thought he also was asleep.