t this is not the time to tell it.
Soon the men rode away, taking the poor woman's only wagon as a hearse
for their dead comrade.

Night came, and the owls cried in the woods in a way they had not cried
for a fortnight. "T'whoot! t'whoot!" they went, as if they thought there
was music in hooting. The woman listened, put on a dark mantle, and
followed the sound of their voices. Entering the woods, she crept in
among the bushes, and talked with the owls as if they had been human.

"They know the road ye'll take," she said; "ye must change yer route.
Here ar' the bullet."

"God bless ye, Rachel!" responded the owl, "ye 'r' a true 'ooman!"--and
he hooted louder than before, to deceive pursuers, and keep up the
music.

"Ar' yer nag safe?" she asked.

"Yes, and good for forty mile afore sun-up."

"Well, here ar' suthin' ter eat: ye'll need it. Good bye, and God go wi'
ye!"

"He'll go wi' ye, fur He loves noble wimmin."

Their hands clasped, and then they parted: he to his long ride; she to
the quiet sleep of those who, out of a true heart, serve their country.

The night was dark and drizzly; but before morning the clouds cleared
away, leaving a thick mist hanging low on the meadows. The scout's mare
was fleet, but the road was rough, and a slosh of snow impeded the
travel. He had come by a strange way, and did not know how far he had
travelled by sunrise; but lights were ahead, shivering in the haze of
the cold, gray morning. Were they the early candles of some sleepy
village, or the camp-fires of a band of guerrillas? He did not know, and
it would not be safe to go on till he did know. The road was lined with
trees, but they would give no shelter; for they were far apart, and the
snow lay white between them. He was in the blue grass region. Tethering
his horse in the timber, he climbed a tall oak by the roadside; but the
mist was too thick to admit of his discerning anything distinctly. It
seemed, however, to be breaking away, and he would wait until his way
was clear; so he sat there, an hour, two hours, and ate his breakfast
from the satchel John's wife had slung over his shoulder. At last the
fog lifted a little, and he saw close at hand a small hamlet,--a few
rude huts gathered round a cross-road. No danger could lurk in such a
place, and he was about to descend, and pursue his journey, when
suddenly he heard, up the road by which he came, the rapid tramp of a
body of horsemen. The mist was thicker below; so