There came a scurrying rush, a command to halt, and a rustling,
scraping noise of dismounting men; a pause, and the sharp, loud rap of a
saber hilt against the door. Virgie breathed hard, but made no answer.

"Open up!" called a voice outside, but the little rebel closed her lips
and sat staring at Susan Jemima across the table. A silence followed,
short, yet filled with dread; then came a low-toned order and the crash
of carbine butts on the stout oak door. For a time it resisted
hopefully, then slowly its top sagged in, with a groaning, grating
protest from its rusty hinges; it swayed, collapsed in a cloud of
dust--and the enemy swept over it.

They came with a rush; in the lead an officer, a naked saber in his
fist, followed by a squad of grim-faced troopers, each with his carbine
cocked and ready for discharge. Yet, as suddenly as they had come, they
halted now at the sight of a little lady, seated at table, eating
berries, as calmly as though the dogs of war had never even growled.

A wondering silence followed, till broken by a piping voice, in grave
but courteous reproof:

"I--I don't think you are very polite."

The officer in command was forced to smile.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he apologized; "but am afraid, this time, I can't
quite help it." He glanced at the door of the adjoining room and turned
to his waiting men, though speaking in an undertone: "He's in there, I
guess. Don't fire if you can help it--on account of the baby. Now then!
Steady, boys! Advance!"