"Who goes there?" followed quick, in the same deep, peremptory tone.

"An officer of the United States, with a flag of truce," was answered in
a clear, firm voice.

"Stand where you are." There was a pause, and presently four dark forms
emerged from the roadside, and stood at the horse's head.

"You've chosen a strange time for your errand, and a dangerous one,"
said one of the party, with a mild and gentlemanly accent.

"Who speaks?"

"The officer in command of this picket."

"Is not that Beverly Weems?"

"The same. And surely I know that voice."

"Of course you do, if you know Harold Hare."

And the stranger, dismounting, stretched out his hand, which was eagerly
and warmly clasped, and followed by a silent and prolonged embrace.

"How rash you have been, Harold," said Beverly, at last. "It is a mercy
that I was by, else might a bullet have been your welcome. Why did you
not wait till morning?"

"Because my mission admits of no delay. It is most opportune that I have
met you. You have spoken to me at times, and Oriana often, of your young