"Who's this?" demanded Rawbon, with his hand upon the hilt of his large bowie knife.
"Curse her! my evil genius," answered Philip, grating his teeth with anger. It was Moll.
"What's this, Philip!" she said, clutching the parchment which had been dropped upon the table.
"Leave that," ejaculated her husband, savagely, and darting to take it from her.
But she eluded his grasp, and ran with the document into a corner of the room.
"Ha! ha! ha! I know what it is," she said, waving it about as a schoolboy sometimes exultingly exhibits a toy that he has mischievously snatched from a comrade.
"It's your death-warrant, Philip Searle, if somebody sees it over yonder. I heard you. I heard you. You're going over to fight for Jeff. Davis. Well, I don't care, but I'll go with you. Don't come near me. Don't hurt me, Philip, or I'll scream to the soldier out there."
"I won't hurt you, Moll. Be quiet now, there's a good girl. Come here and take a sup more of brandy."
"I won't. You want to hurt me. But you can't. I'm a match for you both. Ha! ha! You don't know how nicely I slipped away from the soldiers when they, were resting. I went into the thick bushes, right down in the water, and lay still. I wanted to laugh when I saw them, hunting for me, and I could almost have touched the young officer if I had wished. But I lay still as a mouse, and they went off and never found me. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Is she drunk or mad?" asked Rawbon.