One by one the gun teams swung in a half circle, each dropped its mud-spattered gun, the cannoneers sprang to unhook the trails, the frantic, half-maddened horses were lashed to the rear.
The Special Messenger rose quietly to her feet, and at the same instant a passing cannoneer turned and saw her in the doorway.
“Hey!” he exclaimed; “what you doin’ thar?”
A very young major, spurring up the slope, caught sight of her, too.
“This won’t do!” he began excitedly, pushing his sweating horse up to the door. “I’m sorry, but it won’t do—” He hesitated, perplexed, eyeing this slim, dark-eyed girl, who stood as though dazed there in her ragged homespun and naked feet.
Colonel Carrick, passing at a canter, turned in his saddle, calling out:
“Major Kent! Keep that woman here! It’s too late to send her back.”
The boy-major saluted, then turned to the girl again:
“Who are you?” he asked, vexed.
She seemed unable to reply.