“Burnt down!” exclaimed Ben and I, in one breath.
“That it is; but I’m mighty forgetful, here’s a letter from Miss C’lotta.”
He took off his old torn hat, and lifting up the lining, took out the back of an envelope, soiled and crumpled, and handed it to me. I snatched it eagerly and read—
“Dear John:
I write on this little scrap hastily, to let you hear something from us. Uncle Horace, who has alone been faithful, promises to get it to you, if he can. The Yankees have taken every thing from us, and burned the house. Darling mother, in escaping, was struck on the head by a piece of falling timber, and is in a most critical condition. My precious boy and myself are safe. We are now at Mr. Bemby’s, whose house escaped, though his supplies did not, and we have to depend on his and Uncle Horace’s ingenuity for our daily support. I feel I shall almost go mad with our trouble. God help me to bear it, and forgive my wild wicked thoughts! I fear you will be insane with fury when I tell you that Frank Paning was with the soldiers, piloting them around, and was very insulting to me. I cannot write more.
Carlotta.”
“May God help me to be revenged!” I shouted, crushing the letter in my hand, as I sprang to my feet.
Ben rushed to my side, and, clasping our hands, we held our revolvers above our heads, and registered a fearful oath of vengeance or death. Then my feelings quieted down enough for me to turn to Horace, who was looking at us with a frightened gaze.
“Horace, may Heaven bless you as you deserve. Here is the only reward I can make you now; take it all,” I said, drawing a large roll of Confederate money from my belt.