Both sprang to their feet, and rushing round the tent, came upon two men in deadly strife—one in gray, the other in blue. They rolled on the ground; each held the other's throat in a deadly grasp. It seemed impossible to decide upon which side the victory would turn, and their continual writhings and contortions rendered interference impossible. But at last the struggle ended in the Federal soldier succeeding in drawing a dagger from his breast and plunging it into his opponent's side.
The wounded man's hold relaxed from the other's throat; he fell back heavily with a stifled groan, and the victor rose and turned round his haggard, white face to the brother colonels.
"Morbleu! it is Thoms!" cried Calembours, in accents of incredulity.
"Well fought, gray-beard," chimed in St. Udo, in equal amazement. "You deserve promotion. What was this Confederate soldier about?"
Thoms glared at the two colonels like a tiger, then down at his vanquished enemy, from whose side the blood poured hotly.
"He pretended that he wanted to offer himself as a guide to the grand army," muttered Thoms, "and we passed the pickets and came straight to your tent to speak about it. But he tried to pistol you when he came in sight of you, and I had just time to dash his arm up."
"Brave Thoms!" applauded Calembours. "Good Thoms!"
"What is it, Reed?" demanded St. Udo of the soldier, who was kneeling by the fallen Confederate.
"He is trying to speak," answered Reed. "He is saying, 'No, no.'"
Thoms bent eagerly over him, with murderous look in his eyes.