s cautiously around for a moment, and then stalks on
towards the heart of the city. The moon is down, the lamps burn dimly,
but after him glide the shadows.

In a room at the Tremont House, not far from this time, the Commandant
is walking and waiting, when the door opens, and a man enters. His face
is flushed, his teeth are clenched, his eyes flashing. He is stirred to
the depths of his being. Can he be the Texan?

"What is the matter?" asks the Commandant.

The other sits down, and, as if only talking to himself, tells him. One
hour has swept away the fallacies of his lifetime. He sees the Rebellion
as it is,--the outbreak and outworking of that spirit which makes hell
horrible. Hitherto, that night, he has acted from love, not duty. Now he
bows only to the All-Right and the All-Beautiful, and in his heart is
that psalm of work, sung by one of old, and by all true men since the
dawn of creation: "Here am I, Lord! Send me!"

The first gray of morning is streaking the east, when he goes forth to
find a hiding-place. The sun is not up, and the early light comes dimly
through the misty clouds, but about him still hang the long, dark
shadows. This is a world of shadows. Only in the atmosphere which soon
inclosed him is there no night and no shadow.

Soon the Texan's escape is known at the camp, and a great hue-and-cry
follows. Handbills are got out, a reward is offered, and by that Sunday
noon his name is on every street-corner. Squads of soldiers and police
ransack the city and invade every Rebel asylum. Strange things are
brought to light, and strange gentry dragged out of dark closets; but
nowhere is found the Texan. The search is well done, for the pursuers
are in dead earnest; and, Captain Hines, if you don't trust him now, you
are a fool, with all your astuteness!

So the day wears away and the night cometh. Just at dark a man enters
the private door of the Tremont House, and goes up to a room where the
Commandant is waiting. He sports a light rattan, wears a stove-pipe
hat, a Sunday suit, and is shaven and shorn like unto Samson. What is
the Commandant doing with such a dandy? Soon the gas is lighted; and lo,
it is the Texan! But who in creation would know him? The plot, he says,
thickens. More "Butternuts" have arrived, and the deed will be done on
Tuesday night, as sure as Christmas is coming. He has seen his men,--two
hundred, picked, and every one clamoring for pickings. Hines, who
carries the bag, is to g