"No yer don't, Miss Mollie," said he, stepping before her. "Dey'll kill you, shore."
"No matter. I am going. You provoked this affray by your foolish love of display, and it must be settled now, or it will be a matter of constant trouble hereafter."
"But, Miss Mollie—"
"Not a word! You have been a soldier and should obey orders. Here is your sword. Take it, and keep order here. Examine that poor fellow's wound, and I will go and get a doctor for him."
She handed Nimbus his sword and turned her horse toward the bridge. Then a wail of distress arose from the crowd. The women begged her not to go, with tears. She turned in her saddle, shook her head, and raised her hand to show her displeasure at this. Then she took a handkerchief from her pocket and half waving it as she proceeded, went toward the bridge.
"Well, I swear," said the sheriff; "if that are gal ain't coming in with a flag of truce. She's pluck, anyhow. You ought to give her three cheers, boys."
The scene which had been enacted on the hill had been closely watched from the bridge and the town, and Mollie's conduct had been pretty well interpreted though her words could not be heard. The nerve which she had exhibited had excited universal comment, and it needed no second invitation to bring off every hat and send up, in her honor, the shrill yell with which our soldiers became familiar during the war.
Recognizing this, her pale face became suffused with blushes, and she put her handkerchief to her lips to hide their tremulousness as she came nearer. She ran her eyes quickly along the line of strange faces, until they fell upon the sheriff, by whom stood Hesden Le Moyne. She rode straight to them and said,
"Oh, Mr. Sheriff—"
Then she broke down, and dropping the rein on her horse's neck, she pressed her handkerchief to her face and wept. Her slight frame shook with sobs. The men looked at her with surprise and pity. There was even a huskiness in the sheriff's voice as he said,