Maybe so,
And maybe not; they bear a seven-leagued name
That many hide beneath; each shot, each blow,
Is trumpeted as theirs, and all the blame
Falls on their shoulders, be it what it may—
Now truth, and now but falsehood. Morgan’s men
Are bold Kentucky riders; every glen
Knows their fleet midnight gallop; every map
Kept by our soldiers here is scored with marks
Where they have been; now near, now miles away,
From river lowland to the mountain-gap,
Swift as the rushing wind. No watch-dog barks
When they ride by, no well-versed tongues betray
Their resting-place; Kentucky knows her own,
Gives silent, helpful welcome when they pass
Across her borders north from Tennessee,
Heading their horses for the far Blue Grass,
The land of home, the land they long to see,
The lovely rolling land. We might have known
That come they would!
The Maiden.
You are Kentucky-bred?
The Lady.
I come from Washington. Nay—but I read
The doubt you try to hide. Be frank—confess—
I am that mythical adventuress
That thrives in Washington these troublous days—
The country correspondent’s tale?
The Maiden.
Your dress—
And—something in your air—
The Lady.
I give you praise
For rare sincerity. Go on.