They seem surprised, and, thanking me, go in. I post a man at each corner of the house, and the others go back to bivouac in the court-house square. I am much perplexed what to do. It shall not be said that we searched a house while a girl was dying, and yet it may be a trick, and he within. Walking up and down upon the court-house steps, I think the matter over, and determine on this course: There is a physician attending this girl, and there is another here in whom I can implicitly trust. At sunrise I have routed these two gentlemen out, and marched them down to the house. I then send for Mrs. Mitchell. She comes out, pale from night-watching, and looks with no friendly eye on the pursuers of her husband and the disturbers of her child.
"Captain Mitchell is not here," she says calmly. "He took leave of his daughter, and went away yesterday. She has only an hour or two to live."
"I don't dispute your word, Mrs. Mitchell; I feel for you in your affliction, and know how harsh and unkind my actions must seem; but it is my duty to search this house. Yet I will do all I can for you. I will keep my guards on the outside; or I will let Dr. Matheson go with your physician, and if they report to me that your daughter is as ill as you say, then I will let them make the search."
"I don't object to this, sir; it will not frighten my daughter."
The two doctors go in, and Mrs. Mitchell continues standing beside me on the piazza.
"You have a hard lot," I say; "your husband away at such a time—near you, and yet unable to return."
"Yes, a very hard lot," she answers with a sigh.
The two doctors come out, and Dr. Matheson says:
"She is nearly gone; it is diphtheria—the last stage."