The heart supported by the loved
Is strong to meet the foeman.—E. B. Browning.
“These, at least, shall not be dishonored by anything done to me,” said Britomarte, as with her dagger she hastily cut and tore the captain’s straps from her shoulders, and threw them as far as she could send them.
The sky was clearing, and it was much lighter than it had been as the marauding party rode up. They dismounted at a short distance, and came prowling about on foot among the fallen, to slay the dying, rob the dead.
Britomarte knelt by Justin and held his hand as they came up, and bent over the group.
“Hullo! who have we here? A Yankee colonel, by all that’s lucky. And a Yankee spy to boot. Stoop down and examine him, Canstop. If he is badly hurt, we’ll put him out of his misery, and appropriate that fine suit of broadcloth that can be no farther use to him. If he is not, we’ll take him prisoner and give him a taste of Libby,” said one who seemed to be the leader of the squad.
“Where are you hurt?” said the man called Canstop, who seemed, from his manner, to be some lower grade of hospital nurse.
“In my leg, only, I think. I am weak from loss of blood, and stiff from certain bruises received, by my horse falling on me,” answered Justin, calmly.
“All right; hand over your arms,” said the leader.
“You will find my sword somewhere on the field, where I dropped it from my hand as I fell.”