The truth flashed upon Brant. It was his own hand that had precipitated the attack. But a larger truth came to him now, like a dazzling inspiration. If he had thus precipitated the attack before they were ready, there was a chance that it was imperfect, and there was still hope. But there was no trace of this visible in his face as he fixed his eyes calmly on hers, although his pulses were halting in expectancy as he said—
“Then the spy had suspected you, and changed it.”
“Oh, no,” she said eagerly, “for the spy was with me and was frightened too. We both ran back together—you remember—she was stopped by the patrol!”
She checked herself suddenly, but too late. Her cheeks blazed, her head sank, with the foolish identification of the spy into which her eagerness had betrayed her.
But Brant appeared not to notice it. He was, in fact, puzzling his brain to conceive what information the stupid mulatto woman could have obtained here. His strength, his position was no secret to the enemy—there was nothing to gain from him. She must have been, like the trembling, eager woman before him, a mere tool of others.
“Did this woman live here?” he said.
“No,” she said. “She lived with the Manlys, but had friends whom she visited at your general's headquarters.”
With difficulty Brant suppressed a start. It was clear to him now. The information had been obtained at the division headquarters, and passed through his camp as being nearest the Confederate lines. But what was the information—and what movement had he precipitated? It was clear that this woman did not know. He looked at her keenly. A sudden explosion shook the house,—a drift of smoke passed the window,—a shell had burst in the garden.
She had been gazing at him despairingly, wistfully—but did not blanch or start.
An idea took possession of him. He approached her, and took her cold hand. A half-smile parted her pale lips.