“Accept it now, colonel,” said a benignant voice at the door. I turned suddenly, as did the general. At the opening of the tent, a head was seen—the head passed through—was followed by a body,—and Mr. Nighthawk, private and confidential emissary, glided in with the stealthy step of a wild-cat.
He was unchanged. His small eyes were as piercing, his smile as benignant, his costume—black coat, white cravat, and “stove-pipe” hat—as clerical as before.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr. Nighthawk, smiling sweetly; “I bring news of Colonel Mohun.”
“And fly in like an owl, or your namesake!” laughed Stuart.
“An owl? I am told that is the bird of wisdom, gentlemen!”
“You hit the nail on the head, when you said ‘gentlemen!’”{1} replied Stuart, laughing; “but how about Mohun? Is he exchanged, Nighthawk?”
{Footnote 1: A favorite phrase of Stuart’s.}
And Stuart wheeled round and pointed to a chair.
Nighthawk sat down modestly.
“Not exchanged, exactly, general; but safe!” he said.