We crossed the rather dimly lighted hall, which had a sentry posted at either end of it, and then my conductor threw open a side door, and silently motioned for me to enter in advance of him. It was a spacious room, elegant in all its appointments, but my hasty glance revealed only three occupants. Sitting at a handsomely polished mahogany writing-table near the centre of the apartment was a short, stoutly built man, with straggly beard and fierce, stern eyes. I recognized him at once, although he wore neither uniform nor other insignia of rank. Close beside him stood a colonel of engineers, possibly his chief of staff, while to the right, leaning negligently with one arm on the mantel-shelf above the fireplace, and smiling insolently at me, was Brennan.
The sight of him stiffened me like a drink of brandy, and as the young aide closed the door in my rear, I stepped instantly forward to the table, facing him who I knew must be in command, and removing my hat, saluted.
“This is the prisoner you sent for, sir,” announced the aide.
The officer, who remained seated, looked at me intently,
“Have I ever met you before?” he questioned, as though doubting his memory.
“You have, General Sheridan,” I replied, “I was with General Early during your conference at White Horse Tavern. I also bore a flag to you after the cavalry skirmish at Wilson's Ford.”
“I remember,” shortly, and as he spoke he wheeled in his chair to face Brennan.
“I thought you reported this officer as a spy?” he said sternly. “He is in uniform, and doubtless told you his name and rank.”
“I certainly had every reason to believe he penetrated our lines in disguise,” was the instant reply. “This cavalry cloak was found with him, and consequently I naturally supposed his claim of rank to be false.”
Sheridan looked annoyed, yet turned back to me without administering the sharp rebuke which seemed burning upon his lips.