as vigilant on the other sides of the house. The sharpshooter could
not escape, and he was firmly resolved not to go without him. Yet his
conscience hurt him. It was hard, too, to wait there, while the woman
said not a word, but knitted on as placidly as if he did not exist.

"Madame," he said at last, "I pray that you do not regard this as an
intrusion. The uses of war are hard. We must search. No one can regret
it more than I do, in particular since I am really a Southerner myself,
a Kentuckian."

"A traitor then as well as an enemy."

Dick flushed deeply, and again there was angry blood in his veins,
but he restrained his temper.

"You must at least allow to a man the liberty of choice," he said.

"Provided he has the intelligence and honesty to choose right."

Dick flushed again and bit his lip. And yet he felt that a woman who had
lost two sons before Northern bullets might well be unforgiving. There
was nothing more for him to say, and while he turned back to the window
the knitting needles resumed their click, click.

He waited a full ten minutes and he knew that the sergeant and his men
were searching the house thoroughly. Nothing could escape the notice of
Whitley, and he would surely find the sharpshooter. Then he heard their
footsteps on a stairway and in another minute they entered the great
room. The face of the sergeant clearly showed disappointment.