For some miles, that tragic story absorbed me, banishing all other reflections. That was surely the strangest of histories!—and the drama had by no means reached its denouement. Between the first and last acts “an interval of ten years is supposed to pass.” There was the stage direction! Darke was still alive, active, dangerous, bent on mischief. He had an able coadjutress in his female ally. That singular woman, with whom his life was so closely connected, was in prison, it was true, but the Confederate authorities might release her; she might, at any moment, recommence her diablerie. Had she found that paper—or had Mohun found it? In any event, she was dangerous—more so, even, than her male companion—that worthy whom I might meet at every turn in the road—that prince of surprises and tragic “appearances!”
“Decidedly, these are curiosities, this man and this woman!” I said; “they are two bottomless pits of daring and depravity. Mohun has escaped them heretofore, but now, when the enemy seem driving us, and sweeping every thing before them, will not Darke and madam attain their vengeance, and come out winners in the struggle?”
With that reflection, I dismissed the subject, and pushed on, over the narrow and winding roads, to make my inspections.
The day was cold and brilliant; the winds cut the face; and I rode on steadily, thinking of many things. Then the desire to smoke seized upon me. General Fitzhugh Lee had given me some excellent cigars, captured from the enemy, and I looked around to find some house where I could light my cigar. None appeared; but at two hundred yards from the road, in a hidden hollow, I thought I perceived the glimmer of a fire—probably made by some straggler. I rode toward it, descended into the hollow, approached the fire, beside which crouched a figure, wrapped in an overcoat. The figure raised its head—and I recognized Nighthawk.
He rose and smiled benignantly, as he shook hands with me.
“An unexpected meeting, Nighthawk,” I said, laughing. “What on earth makes you come out and camp in the woods?”
“A little fancy, colonel; you know I am eccentric. I like this way of living, from having scouted so much—but I came here with an object!”
“What?”
“To be private. I thought my fire could not be seen from the road.”
“Why should it not be?”