"I've heard that, too," he nodded, with a twinkle in his gray eyes--"and I've heard also that she's red-headed, peppered with freckles, and--according to report--bow-legged from too many cross-saddles." "Please observe my single spur," she said, extending her slender, booted foot; "and you will notice that I don't fit that passport." "My idea of her passport itemizes every feature you possess," he said, laughing; "five feet seven; dark hair, brown eyes, regular features, small, well-shaped hands----" "Please--Captain West!" "I beg your pardon--" very serious. "I am not offended.... What time is it, if you please?" He lifted the candle, looked closely at his watch and informed her; she expressed disbelief, and stretched out her hand for the watch. He may not have noticed it; he returned the watch to his pocket. She sank back in her chair, very thoughtful. Her glimpse of the monogram on the back of the watch had not lasted long enough. Was it an M or a W she had seen? The room was hot; the aide on the sofa ceased snoring; one spurred heel had fallen to the floor, where it trailed limply. Once or twice he muttered nonsense in his sleep. The major of artillery grunted, lifted a congested face from the cradle of his folded arms, blinked at them stupidly, then his heavy, close-clipped head fell into his arms again. The candle glimmered on his tarnished shoulder straps. A few moments later a door at the end of the room creaked and a fully-lathered visage protruded. Two gimlet eyes surveyed the scene; a mouth all awry from a sabre-slash closed grimly as Captain West rose to attention. "Is there any fresh water?" asked the general. "There's a dead mouse in this pail." At the sound of his voice the aide awoke, got onto his feet, took the pail, and wandered off into the house somewhere; the artillery officer rose with a dreadful yawn, and picked up his forage cap and gauntlets. Then he yawned again, showing every yellow tooth in his head. The general opened his door wider, standing wiry and erect in boots and breeches. His flannel shirt was open at the throat; lather covered his features, making the distorted smile that crept over them unusually hideous. "Well, I'm glad to see _you_," he said to the Special Messenger; "come in while I shave. West, is there anything to eat? All right; I'm ready for it. Come in, Messenger, come in!" She entered, closing the bedroom door; the general shook hands with her slyly, saying, "I'm devilish glad you got through, ma'am. Have any trouble down below?" "Some, General." He nodded and began to shave; she stripped off her tight outer jacket, laid it on the table, and, ripping the lining stitches, extracted some maps and shreds of soft paper covered with notes and figures.