“Halt right fhere yez are,” said the Irishman, with a look on his face that showed he was—well, that he was an Irishman, and had an eye for beauty. The German had taken the horse by the bit, and I stepped out from behind the school house.
Great heavens, but she was a beautiful woman, and she sat on her horse like a statue. I had never seen a more beautiful woman. She was a brunette, with large black eyes, and her face was flushed with the exercise of riding.
She smiled and showed two rows of the prettiest teeth that ever were put into a female mouth, and one ungloved hand, with which she handed me the pass had a dimple at every knuckle, and was as white as paper, and soft as silk. I know it was soft, because it touched my red, freckled hand when I took the pass. I did not blame the general for being in love with her, or for wanting to saw off the unpleasant duty of breaking up her smuggling, on to a poor orphan like me. She said:
“Captain, I have a pass from the general, to go through the lines at any time, unmollested.”
“It is no good,” I said, examining it. “This pass is evidently a forgery.”
“But, my dear captain,” she said, with a smile that I would give ten dollars for a picture of, “The pass is not a forgery. I have used it for months.”
“I am not a dear captain, only a cheap corporal,” I said, with an attempt to be at my ease, which I wasn't.
“There has been at least a wagon load of quinine smuggled through the lines on this pass, and it has got to stop; you cannot go.”
“The dickens you say,” said she as she drew her revolver, and sung out, “let go that horse,” and firing at the German.
“Kritz-dunnerwetter,” said the German, as he got down by the horse's fore feet, and held on to the bridle, “vot vor you choot a man ven he holt your horse?”