"My husband! Oh, God!"
"Madam," said the major, "your husband's life is in his own hands. He can save himself by giving the names of his confederates and leaving the State."
"I'll tell you who they are?" cried the woman.
"God curse yer if yer do!" hissed Bowney from between his teeth.
"Better let him be, madam," argued Caney, of Texas. He'd better die like a man than go back on his friends. Might tell us which of 'em was man enough to fetch you and the young uns here? We'll try to be easy on him when we ketch him."
"None of 'em," sobbed the woman. "We walked, an' I took turns totin' the young uns. My husband! Oh, God! my husband!"
"Beg yer pardon, ma'am," said Bowney's captor, "but nobody can't b'leeve that; it's nigh onto twenty mile."
"I'd ha' done it ef it had been fifty," cried the woman, angrily, "when he wuz in trouble. Oh, God! Oh, God! Don't yer b'leeve it? Then look here!" She picked up the smallest child as she spoke, and in the dim light the men saw that its little feet were torn and bleeding. "'Twas their blood or his'n," cried the woman, rapidly, "an' I didn't know how to choose between 'em. God hev mercy on me! I'm nigh crazy!"
Caney, of Texas, took the child from its mother and carried it to where the moonlight was unobstructed. He looked carefully at its feet, and then shouted:
"Bring the prisoner out here."