ssessed man the apparition of an officer
of the military forces, formidably clad, bearing in one hand a sheathed
sword and in the other a cocked revolver, and rushing in furious
pursuit, is no doubt disquieting to a high degree; upon the man to whom
the pursuit was in this instance directed it appeared to have no other
effect than somewhat to intensify his tranquillity. He might easily
enough have escaped into the forest to the right or the left, but chose
another course of action--turned and quietly faced the captain, saying
as he came up: "I reckon ye must have something to say to me, which ye
disremembered. What mout it be, neighbor?"

But the "neighbor" did not answer, being engaged in the unneighborly act
of covering him with a cocked pistol.

"Surrender," said the captain as calmly as a slight breathlessness from
exertion would permit, "or you die."

There was no menace in the manner of this demand; that was all in the
matter and in the means of enforcing it. There was, too, something not
altogether reassuring in the cold gray eyes that glanced along the
barrel of the weapon. For a moment the two men stood looking at each
other in silence; then the civilian, with no appearance of fear--with as
great apparent unconcern as when complying with the less austere demand
of the sentinel--slowly pulled from his pocket the paper which had
satisfied that humble functionary and held it out, saying:

"I reckon this 'ere parss from Mister Hartroy is--"

"The pass is a forgery," the officer said, interrupting. "I am Captain
Hartroy--and you are Dramer Brune."

It would have required a sharp eye to observe the slight pallor of the
civilian's face at these words, and the only other manifestation
attesting their significance was a voluntary relaxation of the thumb and
fingers holding the dishonored paper, which, falling to the road,
unheeded, was rolled by a gentle wind and then lay still, with a coating
of dust, as in humiliation for the lie that it bore. A moment later the
civilian, still looking unmoved into the barrel of the pistol, said:

"Yes, I am Dramer Brune, a Confederate spy, and your prisoner. I have on
my person, as you will soon discover, a plan of your fort and its
armament, a statement of the distribution of your men and their number,
a map of the approaches, showing the positions of all your outposts. My
life is fairly yours, but if you wish it taken in a more formal way than
by your own hand, and if you ar