ood and stood debating a
moment, they were disturbed by the distant sound of hoof beats.

"Get over on that side of the road," whispered Lloyd, "and keep out of
sight behind that tree; leave your horse here."

Symonds did as he was told none too soon. Around the bend of the road
came a horseman. Quickly Lloyd's challenge rang out:

"Halt, or I fire!"

As he spoke, Lloyd swung his horse across the narrow road.

Swerving instinctively to the right, the newcomer was confronted by
Symonds, who had stepped from behind the tree, revolver in hand. An
easy target for both sides, the rider had no choice in the matter.
Checking his frightened horse, he called:

"Are you Yanks or rebels?"

Symonds lowered his revolver. He knew that a Confederate picket would
not be apt to use the word "rebels."

"We are Yanks," he answered, "and you?"

"A friend."

"Advance, friend," ordered Lloyd, "but put your right hand up. Now," as
the rider approached him, "where did you come from, and where are you
going?"

"From Harper's Ferry, bearing despatches to Adjutant-General Thomas in
Washington from General John Stevenson, commanding this district."

"How did you come to take this cut?" demanded Symonds.

"I rode down the tow path until I reached Edward's Ferry, then cut
across here, hoping to strike the turnpike. It's freezing on the
tow-path." As he spoke the trooper pulled the collar of his heavy blue
overcoat up about his ears until it nearly met his cavalry hat.

The clouds were drifting away from before the moon, and a ray of light
illuminated the scene. Lloyd inspected the trooper suspiciously; his
story sounded all right, but ...

"Your regiment?" he asked.

"The First Maryland Potomac Home Brigade, Colonel Henry A. Cole. I am
attached to headquarters as special messenger."

"Let me see your despatch."

"Hold on," retorted the trooper. "First, tell me who you are."

"That's cool," broke in Symonds. "I guess you will show it to us
whether you want to or not. Seems to me, young man," glancing closely
at the latter's mount, "your horse is mighty fresh, considering you
have ridden such a distance."

"We in the cavalry know how to keep our horses in good condition, as
well as ride them." The trooper pointed derisively at Symonds' sorry
nag standing with drooping head by the roadside.

"None of your lip," growled Symonds angrily; his poor riding was a sore
subject. Further discussion was cut short by Lloyd's peremptory