“No, Messenger.... And I—didn’t—know it was you when I came here. It’s—it’s a dirty business—for an officer.” He sank down on the wooden chair, resting his head between both hands. A single drop of blood fell brightly from his cut cheek.
The Special Messenger stole a swift, sidelong glance toward the window, hesitated, and, always watching him, slid along the wall toward the door, menacing him at every step with leveled revolver. Then, at the door, she cast one rapid glance at the open field behind her and around. A thrill of horror stiffened her. The entire circle of the burned clearing was ringed with the gray pickets of rebel cavalry.
The distant men sat motionless on their horses, carbine on thigh. Here and there a distant horse tossed his beautiful head, or perhaps some hat-brim fluttered. There was no other movement, not one sound.
Crouching to pass the windows beneath the sills she crept, heedless of her prisoner, to the rear door. That avenue to the near clustering woods was closed, too; she saw the glitter of carbines above the laurel.
“Special Messenger?” She turned toward him, pale as a ghost. “I reckon we’ve got you.”
“Yes,” she said.
There was another chair by the table—the only other one. She seated herself, shaking all over, laid her revolver on the table, stared at the weapon, pushed it from her with a nervous shudder, and, ashy of lip and cheek, looked at the man she had struck.
“Will they—hang me?”
“I reckon, ma’am. They hung the other one—the man you took me for.”
“Will there be a—trial?”