Gregg, who espied something on the right, that was likely to be hidden from Kilpatrick until it discovered itself by unpleasant consequences, had sent over an aide with a word of warning; and nearly at the same moment when the volunteer messenger from Pleasanton reached the brigadier, the officer from Gregg rode rapidly up from his direction. Both delivered their messages in a breath, and then both fell back at a gesture from the General. The aide from Gregg was turning his horse to ride back again to his post, when he caught a glance at the somewhat strangely attired man who had come in from Pleasanton. From his lower garments that glance naturally went up to his hat, and thence, by an equally natural movement, to his face. The dark brows of the officer bent darker in an instant, and perhaps there was that in his gaze which the other felt, (there are those who assert that such things are possible), for the next instant there was an answering glance and another pair of brows were knitted not less decidedly. Those two men were serving (more or less) in the same cause, but they looked as little as possible like two warm-hearted comrades in arms—much more as if they would have been delighted to take each other by the throat and mutually exert that gentle pressure calculated to expel a life or two!
Pleasanton was just calling out the Second to take the battery and clear the bridge. While he was doing so, the evil genius of one of those men drove them into collision. The messenger from Gregg, who wore the shoulder-straps and other accoutrements of a Captain on staff service, but with a cavalry sabre at his belt,—after the pause of a moment and while the other was still fixedly regarding him, spurred his horse close up to the side of the gray ridden by the civilian, and accosted him in a tone and with a general manner that he seemed to take no pains to render amiable:
"What are you doing here?"
"On staff service, Captain. How is your head?" was the reply, with quite as much of sneer in the tone as the other had displayed of arrogance.
"What do you call yourself just now?—'Horace Townsend' still?" was the Captain's next inquiry.
"To most others, yes: to you, Captain Hector Coles, just now, I am—" and he bent his mouth so close to the ear of the other that he could have no difficulty in hearing him, though he spoke the last words in a hoarse whisper that has even escaped us!
"I thought so, all the while!" was the reply, an expression of malignant joy crossing the face. "The same infernal coward—I knew it!"
The face of the man who had been Horace Townsend seemed convulsed by a spasm of mortal agony the instant after, but it gave place almost as quickly to an expression of set, deadly anger, the eyes blazing and the cheeks livid. He leaned close to the Captain and even grasped his arm as if to make sure that he should not get away before he had finished his whole sentence.
"Captain Hector Coles," he said, still in the same low, hoarse voice, but so near that the other could easily hear—"you called me the same name five or six weeks ago at the Crawford House, and I am afraid that I proved that it belonged to you!"
"I told you that I would kill you some day for that impertinence, and I will!" was the reply of the Captain, terrible anger in his face.