In the stillness the snores of the sleeping men sounded clearly; surely it had not been that which had awakened him? As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he saw dimly the outlines of a man's figure approach Nancy's tent and disappear behind it. He was wide awake on the instant. Some midnight marauder was trying to enter her tent. The pickets were far away. Captain Tucker, knowing they were within the Confederate lines, had relaxed his vigilance, and the camp was but lightly guarded. Goddard wasted no time in idle speculation. He slid out of his blanket; then softly, very softly, crouching behind each bush he stole toward the tent. Then cautiously, on hands and knees, he crept around it. He was about to rise when fingers closed over his throat, and a heavy body fell upon him. Silently the two men struggled in the little clearing. Goddard's eyes were starting from his head as the pressure tightened on his windpipe. His breath came in panting gasps. With strength born of desperation he tore the gripping hands away, and the fresh air rushed into his stifled lungs. "Lloyd! Lloyd! Help!" he gasped. His weak voice did not carry far; but the figure above him stiffened. "My God! Is it you, Bob?" whispered Lloyd. "We have been fighting each other." He slid off Goddard's body, and assisted him to sit up. "What--what--in blazes did you jump on me for?" demanded Goddard, in a hoarse whisper, tenderly feeling his aching throat. "I did not know it was you, Bob. I have been dozing off and on; and suddenly heard a faint noise in this direction. Thinking it might be Tucker trying to communicate unseen with Miss Newton, I stole over here. When you came creeping around the corner there I sprang on you." "Have you still got that bee in your bonnet?" whispered Goddard scornfully. "When will your persecution of that girl cease? Your search this morning proved she hadn't any despatch. Besides, you did not actually see her pick up that said despatch in Gautier's; you simply jumped to that conclusion because the despatch was not on the floor when you reached their table. Any one might have picked it up. Now, we both have proof that she has not communicated with Tucker. We mistook each other for him, that is all. Let's go back to our blankets." His advice was good, and Lloyd followed it. Inside the tent, a girl, sad at heart, crouched against the canvas; her fingers felt around the _empty_ hole in one of her pear-shaped earrings. As she deftly fitted the two halves together into one pendant she crooned softly: Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl, Than crucifixion of the soul, Maryland! My Maryland! CHAPTER XII THE FIGHT AT THE FORD