“Squadron of Reb cavalry riding hell-bent-for-leather toward us,” cried Jimmie and disappeared.
The old lady ran toward the doorway.
“Don’t leave me!” begged the wounded man; but she disappeared.
Outside she found Captain Dadd standing quietly under the big locust-tree, gazing tranquilly down the turnpike, where a gallop of horses’ hoofs rang out from a cloud of dust, through which gray uniforms now and then flashed forth.
Quiet he stood, but expectant, and his sword hung by its strap from his right hand, while even as Mrs. Sessions looked she saw him gently lift the butt of his Colt’s to see if it was loose in the holster.
She ran up beside him and clutched his arm. He looked down at her, smiled quietly, and even more quietly put his arm about her slender waist. She nodded.
Jimmie stood beside them, in his hand a huge .44—resurrected, like the bayonet, from the stricken field.
The Confederate troop came swinging up the turnpike; lean, capable, hard-bitten men on a raid.
“Halt!”