d, on a mule,
her whole worldly possessions, an old negro, dark as the night, but
faithful as the sun in the heavens. It was high noon when the mule came
back, his heels striking fire, and his rider's eyes flashing, as if
ignited from the sparks the steel had emitted.

"Dey 'm comin', Missus!" he cried,--"not haff a mile away,--twenty
Secesh,--ridin' as ef de Debil wus arter 'em!"

She barred the door, and hastened to the guest-chamber.

"Go," she cried, "through the winder,--ter the woods! They'll be here in
a minute."

"How many is thar?" asked the scout.

"Twenty,--go,--go at once,--or you'll be taken!"

The scout did not move; but, fixing his eyes on her face, he said,--

"Yes, I yere 'em. Thar's a sorry chance for my life a'ready. But,
Rachel, I've thet 'bout me thet's wuth more 'n my life,--thet, may-be,
'll save Kaintuck. If I'm killed, wull ye tuck it ter Cunnel Cranor, at
Paris?"

"Yes, yes, I will. But go: you've not a minnit to lose, I tell you."

"I know, but wull ye swar it,--swar ter tuck this ter Cunnel Cranor
'fore th' Lord thet yeres us?"

"Yes, yes, I will," she said, taking the bullet. But horses' hoofs were
already sounding in the door-yard. "It's too late," cried the woman.
"Oh, why did you stop to parley?"

"Never mind, Rachel," answered the scout. "Don't tuck on. Tuck ye keer
o' th' dispatch. Valu' it loike yer life,--loike Kaintuck. The Lord's
callin' fur me, and I'm a'ready."

But the scout was mistaken. It was not the Lord, but a dozen devils at
the door-way.

"What does ye want?" asked the woman, going to the door.

"The man as come from Garfield's camp at sun-up,--John Jordan, from the
head o' Baine," answered a voice from the outside.

"Ye karn't hev him fur th' axin'," said the scout. "Go away, or I'll
send some o' ye whar the weather is warm, I reckon."

"Pshaw!" said another voice,--from his speech one of the chivalry.
"There are twenty of us. We'll spare your life, if you give up the
dispatch; if you don't, we'll hang you higher than Haman."

The reader will bear in mind that this was in the beginning of the war,
when swarms of spies infested every Union camp, and treason was only a
gentlemanly pastime, not the serious business it has grown to be since
traitors are no longer dangerous.

"I've nothin' but my life thet I'll guv up," answered the scout; "and ef
ye tuck thet, ye'll hev ter pay the price,--six o' yourn."

"Fire the house!" shouted one.

"No, don't do