The soldier's hat still rested on the grass where it had fallen, its military insignia hidden.
"I guess—I know—what I—know," the fellow muttered. "What 's—your—regiment?"
"Seventh Cavalry."
The man stiffened up as if an electric shock had swept through his limp frame. "The hell!—and—did—she—call you—Brant?"
The young officer's face exhibited his disgust. Beyond doubt that sequestered nook was a favorite lounging spot for the girl, and this disreputable creature had been watching her for some sinister purpose.
"So you have been eavesdropping, have you?" said Brant, gravely. "And now you want to try a turn at defaming a woman? Well, you have come to a poor market for the sale of such goods. I am half inclined to throw you bodily into the creek. I believe you are nothing but a common liar, but I 'll give you one chance—you say you know her real name. What is it?"
The eyes of the mummy had become spiteful.
"It's—none of—your damn—business. I'm—not under—your orders."
"Under my orders! Of course not; but what do you mean by that? Who and what are you?"
The fellow stood up, slightly hump-backed but broad of shoulder, his arms long, his legs short and somewhat bowed, his chin protruding impudently, and Brant noticed an oddly shaped black scar, as if burned there by powder, on the back of his right hand.