"I notice--a point that strikes an artist in realistic description inevitably--that Captain Map is calmly reading something as he rides. Such things illustrate." "His nerve? Oh, that's all right." "But the artist's imagination proceeds. Reading what? A newspaper? No, a written sheet, which the wind blows about in his hands. Perhaps instructions--or, better, a love letter." "Likely enough." "They do more than illustrate. They fill in the foreground with humanity against the background of nature and event. You are an army officer, lieutenant, unlessoned, uninspired, unreflective, and may take the word of one old in variety, that the gist of life lies in men and women rather than in event, and that men and women are more worthy of consideration in persons than in masses. The play is played in the foreground, and there is the plot and the crisis and the solution; there the action lies; practicable scenery left and right, practicable mob of courtiers, soldiers, or peasants in the rear--and--" Morgan pulled in his horse and flung up his hand, the white paper fluttering in it. The troop halted short, plunging and scattering sand. "Enter," observed Mavering, "a practicable enemy, lieutenant, from a practicable wood." A quarter of a mile away the sandy road-bed curved and disappeared. A large body of cavalry swung around it. Morgan shaded his eyes with his hand and the fluttering paper. The troops sat stiff and intent. He shouted and wheeled his horse. "Left wheel! Hard!" Whirl, plunge, and shout. Mavering's horse slipped on the sand-bank, lost footing, and fell headlong into the ditch. Mavering struck the opposite bank in a heap, unlimbered, and came down with his feet across the horse's neck. He seized the bridle, jumped, and tugged. The troop was two hundred feet away, the squadron a thousand. A white paper, blown by the wind, danced and twinkled along in the sand. He tugged harder, leaning forward, and caught the paper, thinking, "That's Map's love-letter," heaved and shouted. The horse half rose; something went "thud" in his neck; he screamed and dropped again. Another bullet whined by Mavering's ear. He dropped the bridle--"I'm done, then"--and saw Morgan two hundred feet away, his horse halted and half turned, lifting his revolver again. Mavering dove down the sand, lay still in the ditch, and heard the third bullet whine close by, an inch from his ear, then the swift flight of Morgan's horse and the coming thunder of the squadron. "Blanked if I don't read his blanked letter! What in--'Pass man wearing loose black clothes, broad, stiff-brimmed hat, shaven lips, black beard, smooth hair, of sect called Dunkers, carrying saddle-bags, riding bay horse with white forefoot, through all Union lines--bears important information, give all facilities, forward to Washington, signed--' And no signature."