"I liked you, Harry Kenton, the first time I met you," said Shepard, "and I like you yet. When I saw that you were following me, I led you here in order to say some things to you. You are seeing me now probably for the last time. My spying is over for a long while, at least. A mile further on, a horse, saddled and bridled, is waiting for me. I shall ride all the remainder of the night, board a train in the morning, and, passing through Memphis and Louisville, I shall be in the North in forty-eight hours." "And what then?" "I shall tell to those who ought to know what I have seen in Charleston and Montgomery. I have seen the gathering of forces in the South, and I know the spirit that animates your people, but listen to me, Harry Kenton, do you think that a Union such as ours, formed as ours was, can be broken up in a moment, as you would smash a china plate? The forces on the other side are sluggish, but they are mighty. I foresee war, terrible war, crowded with mighty battles. Now, I'm going to offer you my hand and you are going to take it. Don't think any the less of me because I've been playing the spy. You may be one yourself before the year is out." His manner was winning, and Harry took the offered hand. What right had he to judge? Each to his own opinion. Despite himself, he liked Shepard again. "I'm glad I've known you, but at the same time I'm glad you're leaving," he said. Shepard gave the boy's hand a hearty grasp, which was returned in kind. Then he turned and disappeared in the forest. Harry walked slowly back to Montgomery. Shepard had given him deep cause for thought. He approached the Exchange Hotel, thinking that he would find his friends there and return with them to the camp. But it was later than he had supposed. As he drew near he saw that nearly all the lights were out in the hotel, and the building was silent. He was sure that St. Clair and Langdon had already gone to the camp, and he was about to turn away when he saw a window in the hotel thrown up and a man appear standing full length in the opening. It was Jefferson Davis. The same flood of moonlight that had poured upon Shepard illuminated his face also. But it was not the face of a triumphant man. It was stern, sad, even gloomy. The thin lips were pressed together more tightly than ever, and the somber eyes looked out over the city, but evidently saw nothing there. Harry felt instinctively that his thoughts were like those of Shepard. He, too, foresaw a great and terrible war, and, so foreseeing, knew that this was no time to rejoice and glorify. Harry, held by the strong spell of time and place, watched him a full half hour. It was certain now that Jefferson Davis was thinking, not looking at anything, because his head never moved, and his eyes were always turned in the same direction--Harry noticed at last that the direction was the North.