“Cool and clear, I hope,” replied the major.
“How is your wound?”
“What wound?”
“Didn’t you receive a wound in the head last evening?”
“Upon my word I did not, that I am aware of.”
“Will you excuse me, Major Riggleston, if I ask you to remove your hat for a moment?” said Somers, as he moved his horse up to the side of the major’s.
“Certainly; with pleasure,” replied the staff officer, as he took off his hat.
There was no bandage, nor any appearance of a wound. Somers was more bewildered than ever, and was disposed to do what heroes in the romances do when anything looks astonishingly mysterious—ascribe the delusion to a dream. But he was tired enough from the exertions of the night to convince him that all which had occurred within the rebel lines was a reality.
“Will you allow me to examine your head?” asked he, utterly unable to see through the dark problem.
“I will do even that with pleasure, Captain Somers; though I think you are a little beside yourself,” laughed the major.