Britomarte trembled, not at the certainty of foul food and fouler lodging, but at the prospect of being separated from Justin. So she answered—
“As I do not wish to be divided from my colonel, I will acknowledge that I am a commissioned officer of the line, as you may see for yourself in my dark blue uniform.”
“What is your name, and precise rank?”
“I decline to answer.”
“The fact is, you are a spy, but your reserve will not save you! Here, Pettigru! take his arms, guard him, and march him after the other prisoner!” said the leader.
Britomarte gave up her sword, dagger and revolver, and marched between two rebel soldiers, after the stretcher upon which four other soldiers were bearing Justin off from the field.
The leader was about to leave the spot with the remainder of the party, when he heard a weak voice calling—
“Sergeant!”
“Well, who are you? what’s the matter?”
“One of your company—wounded in the hip. Don’t you think you could send a stretcher and have me taken off the field?”