He was mastering the black horse that had reared, sitting his saddle easily, almost carelessly, his long, yellow-striped legs loosely graceful, his straight, slim figure perfect in poise and balance.
And now the trumpets were sounding; captain after captain turned in his saddle, swung his sabre forward, repeating the order: “Forward—march! Forward—march!”
The Special Messenger whirled her horse and sped to the head of the column.
“I was just beginning to wonder—” began the colonel, when she broke in, breathless:
“May I ride with Captain Stanley of F, sir?”
“Certainly,” he replied, surprised and a trifle amused. She hesitated, nervously picking at her bridle, then said: “When you once get me through their lines—I mean, after I am safely through and you are ready to turn around and leave me—I—I would like—to—to——”
“Yes?” inquired the colonel, gently, divining some “last message” to deliver. For they were desperate chances that she was taking, and those in the beleaguered city would show her no mercy if they ever caught her within its battered bastions.
But the Special Messenger only said: “Before your regiment goes back, may I tell Captain Stanley who I am?”
The colonel’s face fell.
“Nobody is supposed to have any idea who you are——”