A little blood appeared on Whitestone’s arm near the shoulder, but he gave no other sign that the wound affected him. Our man increased his speed a bit, but the effort exhausted him; he stopped of a sudden, dropped to the earth, and lay there panting, strength and breath quite gone. We ran up to him and demanded his surrender. He was too much exhausted to speak, but he nodded as if he were glad the thing was over. We let him rest until his breath came back. Then he climbed to his feet, and, looking at us, said in the fashion of one defending himself: “I did the best I could; you can’t say I didn’t.” “I guess you did,” I replied. “You went farther than any of your comrades.” He was a most likely young fellow, not more than twenty, I should say, and I was very glad he had come out of the affair unhurt. We took him back to the valley, where the conflict was over. Our re-enforcements had come up so fast that the remainder of the British surrendered after a few shots. All the prisoners were delivered to one of our captains who had arrived, and he took them away. Then I turned my attention to Whitestone. Having some small knowledge of surgery, I asked him to let me see his arm. He held it out without a word. I pushed up his sleeve and found that the bullet had cut only a little below the skin. I bound up the scratch with a piece of old white cloth, and said: “You needn’t bother about that, Whitestone; the bullet that cut it wasn’t very well aimed.” “It was aimed pretty well, I think, for a woman,” he said. “You won’t say any more about that, Whitestone, will you?” I asked quietly. “Not to anybody unless to you,” he replied. There was a faint smile on his face that I did not altogether like; but he thrust his hand into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, took out his pipe, lighted the tobacco with great deliberation, and began to smoke as if nothing had happened. The prisoners taken away and other signs of conflict removed, we were left to our old duty, and hill and hollow resumed their quiet. I was much troubled, but at last I made up my mind what to do. Asking Whitestone to keep a good watch, I went to the house and knocked with much loudness at the front door. Kate opened the door, self-possessed and dignified. “Miss Van Auken,” I said with all my dignity, “I congratulate you upon your progress in the useful art of sharpshooting. You have wounded Sergeant Whitestone, a most excellent man, and perhaps it was chance only that saved him from death.” “Why should you blame me?” she said. “I wished the man you were pursuing to escape, and there was no other way to help him. This is war, you know.” I had scarce expected so frank an admission. “I will have to search the house for your weapon,” I said. “How do I know that you will not shoot at me as I go away?” “Do not trouble yourself,” she said easily, “I will bring it to you.” She ran up the stairway and returned in a moment with a large, unloaded pistol, which she held out to me.