"He is not here!"
"I want him—I feel sick! Call him. William Nettleton!" called Hayward, in a low tone.
"Here, captain!——Won't—won't I do just as well? I'll do anything I can for you," said the attendant, springing forward. Had the rebel officer been less absorbed in the prisoner's state he must surely have observed the agitation of the attendant.
"Do you know where you are?" asked Branch of Hayward.
The captain had closed his eyes, but upon hearing the voice of Branch, he opened them, and looked upon the speaker—a look so full of scorn and disgust as to betray the lion heart still beating in his breast.
"Why is that man in my tent?" he asked. "Take him away—his presence is hateful to me."
"It will be before I am through with you. What is that?"
"One of the sentinels in the rear of this tent has discharged his piece!"
"Some of your friends are after us, very likely, Alibamo. I will call upon them, perhaps I shall be able to bring you company." Branch left the tent, hurriedly and not without trepidation.
A gleam of light lit up the face of the attendant. He became at once uneasy. Then he sprang suddenly to the ground, exclaiming, but not loudly: