“Surrender or die.”
“Never!” was the firm response, and while Isaac engaged hand to hand with the smaller of the two, Tom parried skillfully each thrust of his antagonist, who accused him of having murdered the North Carolina officer lying near.
Both Tom and Isaac had thought the stranger dead, but at this accusation the white lips quivered, and whispered faintly, “No, no, they were kind to me, the officer and the boy.”
For an instant the Rebel’s uplifted hand was stayed, and it is difficult to say what the result might have been had not another voice called through the leafy woods, “No quarter to the Yankee!”
Tom’s cheek blanched to an unnatural whiteness, as with partial lips and flashing eyes he watched the new comer hastening to the rescue, the handsome, graceful stranger, whose appearance riveted Isaac’s attention at once, causing him to gaze spell-bound upon the face of the advancing foe, as if it were one he had seen before. How handsome that young man was, with his saucy, laughing eyes of black, his soft, silken curls of hair, and that air of self-assurance, which bespoke a daring, reckless spirit. Isaac could not remove his eyes from the young Rebel, and his late antagonist met with no resistance, as he passed his arms around him and held him prisoner at last. Isaac did not even think of himself; his thoughts were all upon the stranger, at whom poor Tom sat gazing, half bewildered, and trying once to stretch his arms toward him, while the lips essayed to speak. But the words he would have uttered died away as a sudden faintness stole over him, when he saw that he was recognized. There was a violent start,—a fading out of the bright color on the Rebel’s cheek, and Isaac, still watching him, heard him exclaim, “No, no, not him, leave him alone,” while at the same time he attempted to free Tom from the firm grasp the enemy now had upon him.
With an oath the soldier shook him off, then rudely bade his half-senseless victim rise and follow as a prisoner of war. And Tom, unmindful of the pain, arose without a word, and leaning heavily upon his captor, hobbled on, caring little now, it would seem, what fate was in reserve for him. He seemed benumbed, and only an occasional groan, which Isaac fancied was wrung out by pain, told that he was conscious of anything.
“He’s lame,” Isaac cried, the hot tears raining over his face, while he begged of them to stop, or at least to carry poor Capt. Carleton, if they must go on. “I won’t run away,” he said, imploringly to his own captor, feeling intuitively that his was the kinder nature. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’ll help you carry him if necessary. Do have some pity. He’s fainting, see!” and Isaac almost shrieked as poor Tom sunk upon the grass, utterly unable to move another step. They must carry him now or leave him there, and anxious for the honor a captured officer of Tom Carleton’s evident rank in life would confer upon them, the Rebels availed themselves of Isaac’s proffered aid, and the three, bearing their heavy burden, moved slowly on until far beyond the bushes by the stream, where the other soldier sat upon the ground, his laughing black eyes heavy with tears, and his heart throbbing with a keener pain than he had ever known before.
“I was wrong to let him go,” he said aloud. “Three against two would surely have carried the day, and that boy at his side was brave, I know. But it cannot now be helped. He is their prisoner, and all that remains for me to do is to see that the best of treatment comes to him until he is released. But what! are the dead coming back to life?” and the soldier started up as he caught a sound of bending twigs near by.
CHAPTER IX.
THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE.
