"The man as come from Garfield's camp at sun-up,--John Jordan, from the head o' Baine," answered a voice from the outside. "Ye karn't hev him fur th' axin'," said the scout. "Go away, or I'll send some o' ye whar the weather is warm, I reckon." "Pshaw!" said another voice,--from his speech one of the chivalry. "There are twenty of us. We'll spare your life, if you give up the dispatch; if you don't, we'll hang you higher than Haman." The reader will bear in mind that this was in the beginning of the war, when swarms of spies infested every Union camp, and treason was only a gentlemanly pastime, not the serious business it has grown to be since traitors are no longer dangerous. "I've nothin' but my life thet I'll guv up," answered the scout; "and ef ye tuck thet, ye'll hev ter pay the price,--six o' yourn." "Fire the house!" shouted one. "No, don't do thet," said another. "I know him,--he's cl'ar grit,--he'll die in the ashes; and we won't git the dispatch." This sort of talk went on for half an hour; then there was a dead silence, and the woman went to the loft, whence she could see all that was passing outside. About a dozen of the horsemen were posted around the house; but the remainder, dismounted, had gone to the edge of the woods, and were felling a well-grown sapling, with the evident intention of using it as a battering-ram to break down the front door. The woman, in a low tone, explained the situation; and the scout said,-- "It 'r' my only chance. I must run fur it. Bring me yer red shawl, Rachel." She had none, but she had a petticoat of flaming red and yellow. Handling it as if he knew how such articles can be made to spread, the scout softly unbarred the door, and, grasping the hand of the woman, said,-- "Good bye, Rachel. It 'r' a right sorry chance; but I may git through. Ef I do, I'll come ter night; ef I don't, git ye the dispatch ter the Cunnel. Good bye." To the right of the house, midway between it and the woods, stood the barn. That way lay the route of the scout. If he could elude the two mounted men at the door-way, he might escape the other horsemen; for they would have to spring the barn-yard fences, and their horses might refuse the leap. But it was foot of man against leg of horse, and "a right sorry chance." Suddenly he opened the door, and dashed at the two horses with the petticoat. They reared, wheeled, and bounded away like lightning just let out of harness. In the time that it takes to tell it, the scout was over the first fence, and scaling the second; but a horse was making the leap with him. The scout's pistol went off, and the rider's earthly journey was over. Another followed, and his horse fell mortally wounded. The rest made the circuit of the barn-yard, and were rods behind when the scout reached the edge of the forest. Once among those thick laurels, nor horse nor rider can reach a man, if he lies low, and says his prayer in a whisper.