aware of her presence. They started up with astonishment and
consternation. She did not seem to heed them, but leaning upon the
table, she stretched her hand to the brandy flask and applied it to her
lips.

"Who's this?" demanded Rawbon, with his hand upon the hilt of his large
bowie knife.

"Curse her! my evil genius," answered Philip, grating his teeth with
anger. It was Moll.

"What's this, Philip!" she said, clutching the parchment which had been
dropped upon the table.

"Leave that," ejaculated her husband, savagely, and darting to take it
from her.

But she eluded his grasp, and ran with the document into a corner of the
room.

"Ha! ha! ha! I know what it is," she said, waving it about as a
schoolboy sometimes exultingly exhibits a toy that he has mischievously
snatched from a comrade.

"It's your death-warrant, Philip Searle, if somebody sees it over
yonder. I heard you. I heard you. You're going over to fight for Jeff.
Davis. Well, I don't care, but I'll go with you. Don't come near me.
Don't hurt me, Philip, or I'll scream to the soldier out there."

"I won't hurt you, Moll. Be quiet now, there's a good girl. Come here