little distance from the house. The room had three occupants, whom
Archie at once set down as officers. One of them carried his arm in a
sling. He was a tall, powerful-looking man, and Archie recognized in him
the daring rider of the white horse--the chief of the guerrillas.

"I wonder what the old chap would say if he knew I was about," thought
Archie--"I, who gave him that wound. I'd be booked for Shreveport,
certain."

He was interrupted in his meditations by the movements of the officers,
who arose and approached the door, bringing their chairs with them. The
storm had ceased, and as there was no longer any necessity of remaining
in the house, the rebels were, no doubt, moving to cooler quarters.
Archie at once thought of retreating; but the thought had scarcely
passed through his mind, when the door opened, the rebels walked out on
the portico, and seating themselves in their chairs, deposited their
feet on the railing; while the young officer stretched himself out
behind the bush, heartily wishing that he could sink into the ground out
of sight.

"A very warm evening, colonel," said one of the rebels, fanning himself
with his hat.

"Very," answered the guerrilla chief, gently moving his wounded arm,
little dreaming that the one who gave him that wound was at that very
moment lying behind the bushes into which he had just thrown the stump
of his cigar. "It's very warm. I wish I had that rascally Yank that shot
me," he added, "this wound is very painful."

Archie upon hearing this was almost afraid that the beating of his