“Yes, yes; do you know any thing of him?” “You appear especially anxious, Mr. What’s-your-name?” “I am anxious,” replied Nettleton, fiercely. “He insulted me, and I would be revenged.” “Don’t trouble yourself. He’ll catch it soon enough. He was _not_ killed, but was taken out of the water by us.” “Who struck the blow?” yelled Nettleton. “No one of our party. We were concealed upon the opposite bank. We could not see the murderer strike, for it was too dark; but we saw the body thrown in the stream, and saw the stabber wash himself in the river. We would have fired upon him, but were afraid of rousing the Yanks. We waited until he left the body, after throwing it into the stream, and then we recovered it. The man was still alive. He had only fainted from loss of blood. We dressed his wound as well as we could, and then conveyed him to a house the other side of the pike. He will recover; but Colonel Price has an especial spite against him. He met him once at Springfield. So, _when_ he recovers he will be hung.” “Where is he now?” asked Nettleton. “At a little house not fifty rods from here, just the other side of the pike.” Without a word, Nettleton bounded like a deer in the direction the Federal forces had taken. But a dozen shots were fired after him, and he fell. He was soon secured, when it was ascertained that one bullet had cut the neck badly, and another had struck the ankle, although it had not broken the bone. He was still able to walk, and, after being bound, he was dragged forward toward Cassville. A march of forty miles was almost too much even for the tough Nettleton, more especially as he had received a severe shot in the ankle; but he bore up firmly, and at last arrived at the outskirts of the rebel camp. He had become very lame, and rolled about like a ship in a heavy sea. As he entered the camp, many were the jeers and taunts which hailed this specimen of the Yankee soldier. Nettleton made no reply, although his countenance bespoke his contempt. He was now near the quarters of Price. “By thunder!” yelled one of the Confederate soldiers, “that is the very fellow who fooled us at Springfield. Hang him! Hang him!” An explanation was soon made, and Nettleton’s fate appeared certain, as a “drumhead” court-martial had already been convened. Sentence was soon given—the Yankee spy was to be hung upon the spot! A rough scaffolding was formed, under a large tree, and a rope, with the fatal noose attached, thrown over a limb. Nettleton ascended the platform in silence, although his frame trembled. “I never saw a Yankee yet that did not fear to die,” exclaimed one of the bystanders. “Then you see one now, you darn skunk,” replied Nettleton. “Why do you tremble, then?” asked the Confederate. “I was thinking of the captain, and of his poor sister ‘Mamie.’” “Ha! ha! ha! This booby is in love. A romantic spy. And the idol of his passion is called ‘Mamie!’” “You lie, you dog!” yelled Nettleton. “I only—”