“Those cursed rocks!” ejaculated the trooper, as he saw the object of his pursuit approaching the hillside; but, either from want of practice or from terror, it passed the obvious shelter they offered, and fled into the open plain.
“I have you, man or devil!” shouted Lawton, whirling his saber from its scabbard. “Halt, and take quarter!”
His proposition was apparently acceded to; for, at the sound of his powerful voice, the figure sank upon the ground, exhibiting a shapeless ball of black, without life or motion.
“What have we here?” cried Lawton, drawing up by its side. “A gala suit of the good maiden, Jeanette Peyton, wandering around its birthplace, or searching in vain for its discomfited mistress?” He leaned forward in his stirrups, and placing the point of his sword under the silken garment, by throwing aside the covering, discovered part of the form of the reverend gentleman who had fled from the Locusts, the evening before, in his robes of office.
“In truth, Hollister had some ground for his alarm; an army chaplain is, at any time, a terror to a troop of horse.”
The clergyman had collected enough of his disturbed faculties, to discover that it was a face he knew, and somewhat disconcerted at the terror he had manifested, and the indecent attitude in which he had been found, he endeavored to rise and offer some explanation. Lawton received his apologies good-humoredly, if not with much faith in their truth; and, after a short communication upon the state of the valley, the trooper courteously alighted, and they proceeded towards the guard.
“I am so little acquainted, sir, with the rebel uniform, that I really was unable to distinguish, whether those men, whom you say are your own, did or did not belong to the gang of marauders.”
“Apology, sir, is unnecessary,” replied the trooper, curling his lip. “It is not your task, as a minister of God, to take note of the facings of a coat. The standard under which you serve is acknowledged by us all.”
“I serve under the standard of his gracious Majesty, George III,” returned the priest, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. “But really the idea of being scalped has a strong tendency to unman a new-beginner, like myself.”
“Scalped!” echoed Lawton, stopping short in his walk. Then recollecting himself, he added, with composure, “If it is to Dunwoodie’s squadron of Virginia light dragoons that you allude, it may be well to inform you that they generally take a bit of the skull with the skin.”