"No wonder," answers another, "it's only half-past one."
Nothing more is said, and no surprise expressed. If you could hear them, you would think that going to bed at eleven and rising at half-past one is their usual course.
We pass quietly out of the beautiful grove, and wend our way toward Paris. Paris is not altogether safe; Captain Mitchell's visit may have been the forerunner of a guerrilla raid. At three in the morning we have passed Mrs. Ayres', and are on the outskirts of the town. The men are informed of the object of the movement, and are burning with the desire of taking him. There is no need of the order, "If he attempts to escape, shoot him, cut him down, give him no quarter." Those who know the house form a party to surround it, and the rest a reserve to look at the court-house square and see if there be any guerrillas there. We descend to the little stream that bounds Paris; we climb the hill, and enter its empty streets. The men are riding by file, and intent as I am on my object, I am struck with the strange, spectral appearance of this long line of horsemen slowly winding through the silent town.
We approach the house, and the sergeant who has charge of the party dismounts half his men; they fasten their horses, and climb the fence. There is an instant's exciting pause, and then the men on foot rush to the back of the house, while the others gallop to the front; the house is surrounded. I dismount and enter the gate, and as I do so the front door opens, and a woman and two or three girls come out.
"Is Captain Mitchell in this house?" I say to the woman, whom I naturally take to be his wife.
"No, sir."
"When did he leave it?"
"I don't know, sir."