"Who are you?" she screamed again.
"I am a soldier, madam, and I want to come in your house, and warm myself."
By the time I said this I was close enough to see her, and discovered that she had on no article of dress but one of those short-sleeved, low-necked garments, made of muslin, which I have often seen on clothes-lines, while in her right hand she had a vicious-looking rifle, and she looked angry enough to use it. I now determined, if possible, to get near enough to snatch the gun from her, if she made any attempt to shoot. As I drew close enough for her to see the color of my clothing, she hallooed out:
"You're a Yankee, that's what you are!"
"No, madam," I answered, "you are very much mistaken; I am no Yankee, I am a Texan."
"Well, what were you doing in my house this time of night; why didn't you come to the house we live in; what did you go there for? you might have known there was nobody in there."
"Madam, I am a stranger; how should I know which house you were in?"
"Well, what do you want here, this time of night?"
"Why, I want to come in and warm, and get something to eat, for I am hungry, and very cold and wet."