Not so did Alberta. Every movement and expression of this unhappy woman betrayed the anxious and habitual vigilance of the fighting and flying guerrilla life. Forgetting her companion, she would turn her head and stare through the open window, straining her eyes to see what might be going on at a distant point of the encampment in the line of her vision, or else holding her cup of tea suspended between her saucer and her lips, while she listened to the sounds outside the house.
“For goodness sake, Alberta, make a breakfast. You have scarcely eaten a morsel of food or drank a drop of tea. What ails you? What are you watching and listening for? You cannot fear an attack from the Union troops this morning. You said yourself the river would be too high for days to admit of their crossing,” said Elfie, impatiently.
“It is not of them I am thinking,” answered Alberta, making an effort to sip her tea.
“Of what then? I declare you look like a fugitive from justice fearing an arrest. Something ails you.”
“Something always does. Elfie, did you notice the boy that waited on us at supper last night?”
“I saw a boy, bringing in kettles and things, and I heard you call him Gill, or something. I never noticed him particularly. Why should I, little cockatrice of a brigand!” snapped Elfie.
“He was very well worth looking at. A pretty boy, about sixteen years of age, with the blackest hair and rosiest cheeks I ever saw in a lad. He sought refuge with the Free Sword about a week ago. He told a sad tale—oh, it was a very common one—of how his home had been sacked and burned and his father and brother killed and himself taken prisoner by the Yankees; and how at last he had made his escape and reached our encampment.”
“Young scamp! better he had been sent to join his father and brother than lived to become a guerrilla.”
“Upon my word, Elfie, you are not very polite to me—all things considered,” said Alberta.
“I have no right to be—‘all things considered,’” retorted Elfie.