XX. — WHAT OCCURRED AT “FIVE FORKS,” ON THE NIGHT OF MARCH 31, 1865.
Mohun turned like a tiger, and was evidently about to throw himself upon Darke. I grasped his arm and restrained him.
“Listen!” I said.
The house was surrounded by trampling hoofs, and clattering sabres.
Darke had not drawn his pistol, and now glanced at me. His face was thin and pale—he was scarce the shadow of himself—but his eyes “burned” with a strange fire under his bushy brows.
“You are right, Colonel Surry!” he said, in his deep voice, to me, “restrain your friend. Let no one stir, or they are dead. The house is surrounded by a squadron of my cavalry. You are a mile from all succor. You can make no resistance. I am master of this house. But I design to injure no one. Sit down, madam,” he added, to his companion, “I wish to speak first.”
The sentences followed each other rapidly. The speaker’s accent was cold, and had something metallic in it. The capture of the party before him seemed to be no part of his design.
All at once the voice of the strange woman was heard in the silence. She quietly released the arm of Georgia Conway, who had drawn back with an expression of supreme disdain; and calmly seating herself in a chair, gracefully cut some particles of dust from her gray riding habit with a small whip which she carried.
“Yes, let us converse,” she said, with her eyes riveted upon Georgia Conway, “nothing can be more pleasant than these sweet family reunions!”