Lloyd's answer was lost as Symonds' horse stumbled again, recovered himself, and after a few halting steps went dead lame. In a second Symonds had dismounted, and, drawing off his glove, felt the animal's leg.
"Strained a tendon," he growled, blowing on his numb fingers to warm them. "I'll have to lead him to the road; it is over there," pointing to a slight dip in the ground. "You go ahead, sir; it's lucky I know the country."
As the two men reached the edge of the wood and stood debating a moment, they were disturbed by the distant sound of hoof beats.
"Get over on that side of the road," whispered Lloyd, "and keep out of sight behind that tree; leave your horse here."
Symonds did as he was told none too soon. Around the bend of the road came a horseman. Quickly Lloyd's challenge rang out:
"Halt, or I fire!"
As he spoke, Lloyd swung his horse across the narrow road.
Swerving instinctively to the right, the newcomer was confronted by Symonds, who had stepped from behind the tree, revolver in hand. An easy target for both sides, the rider had no choice in the matter. Checking his frightened horse, he called:
"Are you Yanks or rebels?"
Symonds lowered his revolver. He knew that a Confederate picket would not be apt to use the word "rebels."