At daybreak they rode away westward, making a wide circuit of the village, Gard with his lips shaven, hair parted and plastered down, and wearing the gentle old brother's waistcoat that buttoned to the throat, his dingy black coat and wide-brimmed hat. His saddle was primitive, his bridle-bit rusty. Mavering's experienced eye judged that he looked his part. Even the whiteness of his lips, where the razor had gone, added to the impression of calm and austere withdrawal. Was it some lingering touch of the monastery? One does not live without result during the formative years, secluded between cool, white walls, among unworldly lives. Mavering called him "the anchorite," and swore the phrase still truthful. A glimpse of the Potomac between the hills; a troop of Union cavalry breaking camp in a meadow; clank and rattle of side-arms; men gathering and packing kit; men sitting listlessly in their saddles; a mounted officer in the middle of the road, looking down towards the Potomac--large, square-shouldered, and massive. He turned in his saddle. "Hold on here! Halt!" Gard pulled up and looked at him under drooped eyelids. Mavering pushed between. "Without circumlocution, Captain Map, you're precisely what I'm looking for. Cavalry's the thing for a correspondent. I have an unsubstantial vision I used to know you in Hamilton." "That's all right. Who's this?" "Oh, that's a Dunker brother. Got some blanked tracts in his saddle-bags. Let me join you?" "Is--is he?" His horse blocked the road aggressively. He kept his eyes on Gard. "Well"--Mavering turned and surveyed the "make-up" critically, complacently--"I slept with him at his old man's last night. If a twenty-minute Dutch prayer is any proof, he's still in the faith of his fathers. I'm leaving you here, brother." Gard nodded, rode into the ditch with a face conscientiously blank, mild, non-combatant, and passed the obstacle. Morgan watched him ambling leisurely away in the sunlight and the dust. Mavering waited some time. "Look here, captain. Did I understand you laconically to insinuate I might accompany and chronicle your glories?" Morgan wheeled his horse slowly. "I guess so. Yes, you may." The road went around a sandy hummock and disappeared. Gard did not look back. Beyond the strip of the Potomac the Virginia hills were blue and cool and peaceful. Mavering meditated a disclosure. Still, whether Morgan had recognized Gard, or for a time had suspected it was he, or had only acted on constitutional aggressiveness, it did not seem likely in any case that he would chatter about the matter. He could hold his tongue without being warned. "It's none of my funeral." Gard had precisely stated what he wanted. Mavering remarked: "That Dunker had a pass, if you'd asked for it--permit to scatter his tracts wherever he liked."