"Will you wait here a moment in the wagon, Miss Catherwood, until I go to the top of the hill?" he asked.
She nodded, and springing out, Prescott ran to the crest. There looking over into the valley, he saw the camp of which the Lieutenant had spoken, a cluster of tents and a ring of smoking fires with horses tethered beyond, the brief stopping place of perhaps five hundred men, as Prescott, with a practised eye, could quickly tell.
He saw now the end of the difficulty, but he did not rejoice as he had hoped.
"Beyond this hill in the valley, and within plain view from the crest, is the camp of your friends, Miss Catherwood," he said. "Our journey is over. We need not take the wagon any farther, as it belongs to our sleeping friend, the farmer, but you can go on now to this Northern detachment—a raiding party, I presume, but sure to treat you well. I thank God that the time is not yet when a woman is not safe in the camp of either North or South. Come!"
She dismounted from the wagon and slowly they walked together to the top of the hill. Prescott pointed to the valley, where the fires glowed redly across the snow.
"Here I leave you," he said.
She looked up at him and the glow of the fires below was reflected in her eyes.
"Shall we ever see each other again?" she asked.
"That I cannot tell," he replied.
She did not go on just yet, lingering there a little.