"Oh, you say he came back here a spy!" she broke forth, impetuously. "It is not so! He never came near the post,—nearer than Stabber's village, and there he had a right to be. You say 'twas he who led them to the warpath,—that he planned the robbery here and took the money. He never knew they were going, till they were gone. He never stole a penny. That money was loaned him honestly—and for a purpose—and with the hope and expectation of rich profit thereby."
"By you, do you mean?" asked the general, calmly, as before.
"By me? No! What money had I? He asked it and it was given him—by Lieutenant Field."
A gasp that was almost a cry following instantly on this insolent assertion—a sound of stir and start among the officers at whom she had not as yet so much as glanced, now caused the girl to turn one swift, contemptuous look their way, and in that momentary flash her eyes encountered those of the man she had thus accused. Field stood like one turned suddenly to stone, gazing at her with wild, incredulous eyes. One instant she seemed to sway, as though the sight had staggered her, but the rally was as instantaneous. Before the general could interpose a word, she plunged on again:—
"He, at least, had a heart and conscience. He knew how wrongfully Moreau had been accused,—that money was actually needed to establish his claim. It would all have been repaid if your soldiers had not forced this wicked war, and—" and now in her vehemence her eyes were flashing, her hand uplifted, when, all on a sudden, the portière was raised the second time, and there at the doorway stood the former inspector general, "Black Bill." At sight of him the mad flow of words met sudden stop. Down, slowly down, came the clinched, uplifted hand. Her eyes, glaring as were Field's a moment agone, were fixed in awful fascination on the grizzled face. Then actually she recoiled as the veteran officer stepped quietly forward into the room.
"And what?" said he, with placid interest. "I haven't heard you rave in many a moon, Nanette. You are your mother over again—without your mother's excuse for fury."
But a wondrous silence had fallen on the group. The girl had turned rigid. For an instant not a move was made, and, in the hush of all but throbbing hearts, the sound of the trumpets pealing forth the last notes of tattoo came softly through the outer night.
Then sudden, close at hand, yet muffled by double door and windows, came other sounds—sounds of rush and scurry,—excited voices,—cries of halt! halt!—the ring of a carbine,—a yell of warning—another shot, and Blake and the aide-de-camp sprang through the hallway to the storm door without. Mrs. Hay, shuddering with dread, ran to the door of her husband's chamber beyond the dining room. She was gone but a moment. When she returned the little Ogalalla maid, trembling and wild-eyed, had come running down from aloft. The general had followed into the lighted hallway,—they were all crowding there by this time,—and the voice of Captain Ray, with just a tremor of excitement about it, was heard at the storm door on the porch, in explanation to the chief.
"Moreau, sir! Broke guard and stabbed Kennedy. The second shot dropped him. He wants Fawn Eyes, his sister."
A scream of agony rang through the hall, shrill and piercing. Then the wild cry followed: