“What was that, Mohun?”
“A bullet from his pistol, which grazed my shoulder. A mere scratch, but provoking. I saw him grin as he fired.”
“An old friend on the Yankee side? Well, that happens,” said Stuart—
“Frequently, general,” said Mohun; “and this one was very dear, indeed—most tenderly attached to me, I assure you. My affection for him is of the same endearing nature: and we only crossed sabres in jest—a mere fencing bout for amusement. We would not hurt each other for worlds!”
And Mohun’s mustache curled with laughter. There was something restless and sinister in it.
Suddenly his face grew paler, and his eyes were half closed.
“Well, Mohun,” said Stuart, who was not looking at him; “I am going to send you across the river on a reconnaissance to-night.”
“All right, general.”
And the officer made the military salute. As he did so, he staggered, and Stuart raised his eyes.
“You are wounded!” he exclaimed.