act described in the preceding chapter, which
every English reader will pardon, I went up stairs, put on a clean pair
of stockings, and, placing a rose in my lustrous black hair, proceeded
at once to the camp of Generals Price and Mosby to put them in
possession of information which would lead to the destruction of a
portion of the Federal Army. During a great part of my flight I was
exposed to a running fire from the Federal pickets of such coarse
expressions as, "Go it, Sally Reb," "Dust it, my Confederate beauty,"
but I succeeded in reaching the glorious Southern camp uninjured.

In a week afterwards I was arrested, by a lettre de cachet of Mr.
Stanton, and placed in the Bastile. British readers of my story will
express surprise at these terms, but I assure them that not only these
articles but tumbrils, guillotines, and conciergeries were in active
use among the Federals. If substantiation be required, I refer to the
Charleston Mercury, the only reliable organ, next to the New York Daily
News, published in the country. At the Bastile I made the acquaintance
of the accomplished and elegant author of Guy Livingstone,* to whom I
presented a curiously carved thigh-bone of a Union officer, and from
whom I received the following beautiful acknowledgment:--

"Demoiselle:--Should I ever win hame to my ain countrie, I make mine
avow to enshrine in my reliquaire this elegant bijouterie and offering
of La Belle Rebelle. Nay, methinks this fraction of man's anatomy were
some compensation for the rib lost by the 'grand old gardener,' Adam."

* The recent conduct of Mr. Livingstone renders him unworthy of my
notice. His disgusting praise of Belle Boyd, and complete ignoring of
my claims, show the artfulness of some females and puppyism of some
men. M. McG.

CHAPTER VI.

Released at last from durance vile and placed on board of an Erie
canal-boat, on my way to Canada, I for a moment breathed the sweets of
liberty. Perhaps the interval gave me opportunity to indulge in
certain reveries which I had hitherto sternly dismissed. Henry
Breckinridge Folair, a consistent copperhead, captain of the
canal-boat, again and again pressed that suit I had so often rejected.

It was a lovely moonlight night. We sat on the deck of the gliding
craft. The moonbeam and the lash of the driver fell softly on the
flanks of the off horse, and only the surging of the tow-rope broke the
silence. Folair's arm clasped my waist. I su