Neb nodded, overcome by the discovery.

"But what caused them to run such a risk?" Keith insisted. "Didn't they
know the Indians were on the war path?"

"Sho'; I heard 'em talkin' 'bout dat, but Massa Waite was jest boun' foh
to git movin'. He didn't 'pear to be 'fraid ob no Injuns; reck'ned dey'd
nebber stop him, dat he knowed ebbery chief on de plains. I reck'n dat he
did, too."

"But what was he so anxious to get away for?"

"I dunno, Massa, I done heerd 'em talk some 'bout dey plans, an' 'bout
some gal dey wanted ter fin', but I didn't git no right sense to it. De
Gin'ral, he was a mighty still man."

"The General? Whom do you mean? Not Waite?"

"John Sibley done called him dat."

Then Keith remembered--just a dim, misty thread at first, changing slowly
into a clear recollection. He was riding with despatches from Longstreet
to Stonewall Jackson, and had been shot through the side. The first of
Jackson's troops he reached was a brigade of North Carolinians, commanded
by General Waite--General Willis Waite. He had fallen from his horse at
the outposts, was brought helpless to the General's tent, and another sent
on with the papers. And Mrs. Waite had dressed and bandaged his wound.
That was where he had seen that woman's face before, with its haunting
familiarity. He drew the locket from beneath his shirt, and gazed at the