thet," said another. "I know him,--he's cl'ar grit,--he'll
die in the ashes; and we won't git the dispatch."

This sort of talk went on for half an hour; then there was a dead
silence, and the woman went to the loft, whence she could see all that
was passing outside. About a dozen of the horsemen were posted around
the house; but the remainder, dismounted, had gone to the edge of the
woods, and were felling a well-grown sapling, with the evident intention
of using it as a battering-ram to break down the front door.

The woman, in a low tone, explained the situation; and the scout said,--

"It 'r' my only chance. I must run fur it. Bring me yer red shawl,
Rachel."

She had none, but she had a petticoat of flaming red and yellow.
Handling it as if he knew how such articles can be made to spread, the
scout softly unbarred the door, and, grasping the hand of the woman,
said,--

"Good bye, Rachel. It 'r' a right sorry chance; but I may git through.
Ef I do, I'll come ter night; ef I don't, git ye the dispatch ter the
Cunnel. Good bye."

To the right of the house, midway between it and the woods, stood the
barn. That way lay the route of the scout. If he could elude the two
mounted men at the door-way, he might escape the other horsemen; for
they would have to spring the barn-yard fences, and their horses might
refuse the leap. But it was foot of man against leg of horse, and "a
right sorry chance."

Suddenly he opened the door, and dashed at the two horses with the
petticoat. They reared, wheeled, and bounded away like lightning just
let out of harness. In the time that it takes to tell it, the scout was
over the first fence, and scaling the second; but a horse was making the
leap with him. The scout's pistol went off, and the rider's earthly
journey was over. Another followed, and his horse fell mortally wounded.
The rest made the circuit of the barn-yard, and were rods behind when
the scout reached the edge of the forest. Once among those thick
laurels, nor horse nor rider can reach a man, if he lies low, and says
his prayer in a whisper.

The Rebels bore the body of their comrade back to the house, and said to
the woman,--

"We'll be revenged for this. We know the route he'll take, and will have
his life before to-morrow; and you--we'd burn your house over your head,
if you were not the wife of Jack Brown."

Brown was a loyal man, who was serving his country in the ranks of
Marshall. Thereby hangs a tale, bu