Mud smeared her riding jacket; boots and skirt were clotted with it; so was the single army spur. Her horse stretched a glossy, sweating neck and rolled wisely-suspicious eyes at the dazzling light. On the gray saddle cloth glimmered three gilt letters, C. S. A.
“What name, ma’am?” repeated the corporal, coming closer with lifted lantern, and passing an inquiring thumb over the ominous letters embroidered on the saddle cloth.
“No name,” she said. “They will understand—inside there.”
“That your hoss, ma’am?”
“It seems to be.”
“Swap him with a Johnny?”
“No; took him from a Johnny.”
“Shucks!” said the corporal, examining the gilt letters. Then, looking around at her:
“Wa’ll, the ginrall, he’s some busy.”
“Please say that his messenger is here.”