The horseman came on. “Halt! or I fire.”
The horse was stopped. “Don’t waste your bullets on me!” said the rider coolly. “Save them for the Yankees.”
“Dismount before you advance.”
“I have the countersign. I am Lieutenant Francis, bearing an enquiry from General Lee.”
“Dismount before you advance.”
The officer dismounted. He was a tall man, wrapped, though the night was warm, in a grey horseman’s cloak. “You are tremendously careful to-night! I suppose my horse may follow me? He doesn’t stand well.”
“Fasten him to the sapling beside you.—Advance and give the countersign.”
The tall man came up, revealing, beneath a grey hat pulled low, a tanned countenance with long mustaches. “Ivry. I’ll tell General Stuart that you are about the most cautious picket he’s got. I remember having to convince just such another when I was in Texas in ’43—”
“Did you convince him?”
“I did. The word is Ivry. Allow me to pass.”