I had some notion of confiding in Whitestone, but, after thought, I concluded I had best not, at least not fully.
I found him walking up and down in the valley.
“Whitestone,” I said, “do me a favor? if anybody asks you how you got that scratch on your arm, tell him it was in the skirmish, and you don’t know who fired the shot.”
He considered a moment.
“I’ll do it,” he said, “if you’ll agree to do as much for me, first chance.”
I promised, and, that matter off my mind, tried to think of a plan to get Albert out of the house and back to his own army unseen by any of ours. Thinking thus, the night passed away.