“A lady presents this order and pass from Washington, countersigned by the division general.”
“A lady?”
“Yes, sir, she is dressed as such. But she has not only declined the most ordinary civilities and courtesies we have offered her, but she has insulted Mr. Martin and myself grossly, and demands to be shown to you—alone.”
Brant took the paper. It was a special order from the President, passing Miss Matilda Faulkner through the Federal lines to visit her uncle's home, known as “Gray Oaks,” now held and occupied as the headquarters of Brant's Brigade, in order to arrange for the preservation and disposal of certain family effects and private property that still remained there, or to take and carry away such property; and invoking all necessary aid and assistance from the United States forces in such occupancy. It was countersigned by the division commander. It was perfectly regular and of undoubted authenticity. He had heard of passes of this kind,—the terror of the army,—issued in Washington under some strange controlling influence and against military protest; but he did not let his subordinate see the uneasiness with which it filled him.
“Show her in,” he said quietly.
But she had already entered, brushing scornfully past the officer, and drawing her skirt aside, as if contaminated: a very pretty Southern girl, scornful and red-lipped, clad in a gray riding-habit, and still carrying her riding-whip clenched ominously in her slim, gauntleted hand!
“You have my permit in your hand,” she said brusquely, hardly raising her eyes to Brant. “I suppose it's all straight enough,—and even if it isn't, I don't reckon to be kept waiting with those hirelings.”
“Your 'permit' is 'straight' enough, Miss Faulkner,” said Brant, slowly reading her name from the document before him. “But, as it does not seem to include permission to insult my officers, you will perhaps allow them first to retire.”
He made a sign to the officer, who passed out of the door.
As it closed, he went on, in a gentle but coldly unimpassioned voice,—