"Not until after daylight came, and I noticed how you were clothed,"
and her eyes lost all gleam of humor. "I respect a scout, but despise
a spy."

My cheeks flamed, as I realized what she meant--the tattered gray
jacket, buttoned tightly, and concealing my blue blouse. In swift
disgust I wrenched it open, and flung the garment into the road.

"I had entirely forgotten I had the thing on," I explained hastily.
"Don't condemn until you hear my story. You will listen, will you not?"

She sat silent, looking intently into my face, with merely the slightest
inclination of the head.

"I came into your lines dressed just as I am now, drifting across the
river behind a log. It was my third attempt to get through your pickets,
and this time I succeeded. I found myself in thick brush near a cluster
of tents, and overheard two officers talking. One was a major by the
name of Hardy--do you know him?"

"Yes," a swift little catch in her voice.

"The other was a shorter, heavier-set man, out-ranking Hardy."

"Speaking with short, crisp sentences," she interrupted, "and wearing a
heavy beard?"

"He spoke that way--yes; but as to the beard I could not say owing to
the darkness."