I did not understand him. I saw no reason for his high tone, and much was strange in what he said. Yet he had the manner and bearing of a gentleman, and he had been a timely friend to me. I had no right to ask him curious questions. He did not seem inclined to further talk, and I too was silent. But I found employment for my eyes. We were descending the first slopes of the valley, and it lay before us a welcome oasis in the weary wilderness of mountains. It must have been several miles in length and a good mile or more across. Down the centre of it flowed a creek of clear, cool water, almost big enough to call itself a river, and the thickness of the tree-trunks and the long grass browned by the autumn breath showed the fertility of the soil. Through the trees, which still retained much of their foliage, the corners of house-roofs appeared. There are many such secluded and warm little valleys in the Alleghanies, and I saw no occasion for surprise. In truth, what I saw was most welcome: it indicated the comfort of which I stood in need. "I haven't asked you your name," said my host, suddenly. "Arthur West," I replied. "I would infer from your accent that you are a Northerner, a Yankee," he said, looking at me closely, and in a way I did not quite understand. "You are right on the first point, but not on the second," I replied. "I am a Northerner, but not a Yankee. I am not from New England, but from New York City." "It's all the same," he replied, frowning. "You're a Yankee, and I knew it from the first. We call the people of all the Northern States Yankees." "Have it so," I replied, with a laugh. "But abroad they call us all Yankees, whether from the Northern or the Southern States." "Luckily I never go abroad," he replied, frowning still more deeply. "You have not asked me my own name," he continued. "No, but I confess I would like to hear it," I replied. "I wish to know whose hospitality I am about to enjoy, a hospitality for which I can never thank you too much, for if I had not met you I might have starved or frozen to death in this wilderness." "I am Colonel John Greene Hetherill, C.S.A.," he replied. "C.S.A.?" I said, looking at his gray uniform. "Yes, 'C.S.A.,'" he replied. His tone was emphatic and haughty. "Confederate States of America. What have you to say against it?" "Nothing," I replied. "I leave that to the historians." "Who are mostly liars," he said. He looked at me with an expression of undoubted hostility. "I would have liked it much better had you been a Southerner and not a Yankee," he said. "How can I trust you?" "I hope I am a gentleman," I replied. "At any rate, I am lame and in straits, and under no circumstances would I violate your hospitality." His expression softened. He even looked at me with pity. "Well, it's the word of a Yankee," he said, "but still--it may be the truth. Remember that on your word of honor you are to tell nothing about Fort Defiance, its approaches or its plans."