The effect was electric. Stoughton sat up in bed, gobbling in fury. In the dim candlelight, he mistook the gray of Mosby's tunic for blue, and began a string of bloodthirsty threats of court-martial and firing squad, interspersed with oaths.
"Easy, now, General," the perpetrator of the outrage soothed. "You've heard of John Mosby, haven't you?"
"Yes; have you captured him?" In the face of such tidings, Stoughton would gladly forget the assault on his person.
Mosby shook his head, smiling seraphically. "No, General. He's captured you. I'm Mosby."
"Oh my God!" Stoughton sank back on the pillow and closed his eyes, overcome.
Knowing the precarious nature of his present advantage, Mosby then undertook to deprive Stoughton of any hope of rescue or will to resist.
"Stuart's cavalry is occupying Fairfax Courthouse," he invented, "and Stonewall Jackson's at Chantilly with his whole force. We're all moving to occupy Alexandria by morning. You'll have to hurry and dress, General."
"Is Fitzhugh Lee here?" Stoughton asked. "He's a friend of mine; we were classmates at West Point."
"Why, no; he's with Jackson at Chantilly. Do you want me to take you to him? I can do so easily if you hurry."
It does not appear that Stoughton doubted as much as one syllable of this remarkable set of prevarications. The Union Army had learned by bitter experience that Stonewall Jackson was capable of materializing almost anywhere. So he climbed out of bed, putting on his clothes.