A big blue-bottle fly came blundering into the room and filled the silence with its noise. Years ago the big blue flies sometimes came into the quiet schoolroom; and how everybody giggled when the taller Miss Poucher, bristling from her prunella shoes to her stiff side-curls, charged indignantly upon the buzzing intruder.
Dry—eyed, dry—lipped, the Messenger straightened up, quivering, and drew a quick, sharp breath; then her head fell forward, and, resting inert upon the table, she buried her face in her arms. The most dangerous spy in the Union service—the secret agent who had worked more evil to the Confederacy than any single Union army corps—the coolest, most resourceful, most trusted messenger on either side as long as the struggle lasted—caught at last.
The man, young, Southern, and a gentleman’s son, sat staring at her. He had driven his finger-nails deep into his palms, bitten his underlip till it was raw.
“Messenger!”
She made no response.
“Are you afraid?”
Her head, prone in her arms, motioned dull negation. It was a lie and he knew it. He looked at the slender column of the neck—stained to a delicate amber—at the nape; and he thought of the rope and the knot under the left ear.
“Messenger,” he said once more. “I did not know it was you I was to meet. Look at me, in God’s name!”
She opened her eyes on him, then raised her head.
“Do you know me now?” he asked.