She hastened toward the tent of the commander, reaching it at the same time as a number of soldiers did. A man was in their midst who, although he wore a suit of butternut, seemed to be a prisoner. Jeanne paused as the men stopped directly in front of her, and gave a cry of amazement at sight of the man.
“You,” she cried, in agitated tones. “Oh, I thought that you were on our side!”
A loud burst of laughter came from the soldiers, and the prisoner became very pale.
“I reckon the ‘Little Yank’ has called your death sentence, pardner,” said one of the Confederates, roughly. “That shows that you are a spy all right enough.”
“A spy,” cried Jeanne, a light flooding her mind. “Oh, what have I done? What have I done?”
“Do not grieve,” said the young man, who was none other than the officer whom she had aided in Memphis. “They strongly suspected it any way, and were taking me to their Commanding officer for examination.”
“There doesn’t need to be much examination,” said a Confederate, bluntly. “Colonel Peyton will make short work of you.”
“Whom did you say?” cried the young man in such agonized tones that all turned to look at him.
“Colonel Peyton,” was the reply. “Here he is now.”
“What does this mean, boys?” asked Colonel Peyton, appearing in the door of his tent. “What is the disturbance?”