Harry beat upon that door until he bruised the hilt of his sword. At last it was thrown open violently, and a powerful woman of middle years appeared.
“I thought you Yankees had gone forever!” she exclaimed. “You'd better hurry or Stonewall Jackson will get you before morning!”
“We're not Yankees, ma'am,” said Harry, politely. “We're Southerners, Stonewall Jackson's own men, scouts from his army, here looking for news of the enemy.”
“A fine tale, young man. You're trying to fool me with your gray uniform. Stonewall Jackson's men are fifteen miles north of here, chasing the Yankees by thousands into the Potomac. They say he does it just as well by night as by day, and that he never sleeps or rests.”
“What my comrade tells you is true. Good evening, Cousin Eliza!” said a gentle voice beyond Harry.
The woman started and then stepped out of the door. Dalton rode forward a little where the full moonlight fell upon him.
“You remember that summer six years ago when you spanked me for stealing the big yellow apples in the orchard.”
“George! Little George Dalton!” she cried, and as Dalton got off his horse she enclosed him in a powerful embrace, although he was little no longer.
“And have you come from Stonewall Jackson?” she asked breathless with eagerness.
“Straight from him. I'm on his staff and so is my friend here. This is Harry Kenton of Kentucky, Mrs. Pomeroy, and he's been through all the battles with us. We were watching from the woods and we saw those Yankees at your door. They didn't get any information, I know that, but I'm thinking that we will.”