Schuyler smiled, turned upon his heel, and knocked again at the prison door. It was promptly opened.
“Conduct this young woman to Captain Butler’s room; she is his wife,” he said, addressing the jailer.
“See that no one treats her rudely—but this one interview must be enough; to-morrow the young man will be removed to the custody of a private family, where his health can be cared for; he frets like a caged panther here.”
Turning to Tahmeroo, before he mounted his horse, the general said in a kindly, paternal way: “Now make the best of your time, my poor girl; it is well you caught me here, for I should have been off to the camp again in less than an hour.”
Tahmeroo could not speak; she saw the door open, and casting back one brilliant glance of gratitude darted through.
Schuyler smiled quietly, muttered, “Poor thing, poor thing!” once or twice, and mounting his horse, rode away.
“My husband—Walter!”
Butler sprang to his feet, with an exclamation of delight. He was prostrate on a low camp-bed when she entered, as General Schuyler had left him, apparently exhausted by illness.
“Tahmeroo, my hawk—my pretty rattlesnake.”
“Oh, you are sick; you are dying!” cried the heart-stricken wife, losing all strength and dropping on her knees by the bed he had just left.