“Here comes a flag of truce,” said Gilbert, presently, as a rebel appeared, holding up a white rag. “If I were you, I wouldn’t honor it.”
“I would like to hear what they have to say,” replied Ben, quietly.
“But remember how they fired on the other flag of truce,” insisted the young Southerner. “You’ll be running your head into a lion’s mouth.”
“Sorrel, keep that man covered,” said Ben. “I won’t move out any further than he does.”
“If you go, I’ll go with you,” said Gilbert, promptly.
He would not be put off, and together Ben and he moved into the opening, Ben holding up a new handkerchief as he walked. The rebel at once halted, as if expecting them to come over to where he stood.
“You come over here!” cried Gilbert, and waved his hand.
There was a full minute’s delay, and then of a sudden the rebel threw down his white flag and sped toward the house. At the same time three reports rang out, and Gilbert fell back, struck in the shoulder.
“What did I tell you!” he gasped. “They are treacherous to the last degree!” And then the young Southerner fainted.