seemed to be pondering upon something at once painful and
interesting.

Frank made no further attempts to draw him into conversation, and,
just as the sun was rising, the major gave the order to halt. He also
had noticed the sorrowful look of the young stranger, and, attributing
it to a depression of spirits, which any one would feel at finding
himself in such circumstances, addressed him, as he came up, with:

"My friend, you appear to be sorely troubled about something. Cheer
up; it does no good to be despondent. I know our case is desperate,
but it is not altogether hopeless. We do not intend to be recaptured,
as long as one of us has strength to draw a trigger."

"I am not troubled about that, sir," answered the youth, throwing
himself wearily on the ground. "The cause of my sorrow dates further
back than my capture and confinement in prison. I know that I am not
the only one who has suffered during this rebellion; but mine is a
peculiar case. I have not known a happy day since the war commenced.
Every tie that bound me to earth was severed when the first gun was
fired on Fort Sumter."

"Ah!" exclaimed Frank, guessing the truth at once. "Then your
relatives are rebels."

"Yes, they are; and the most bitter kind of rebels, too. I have kept
my secret until I can no longer endure it. I have become
completely discouraged, and am greatly in need of what I at first
shunned--sympathy. If you will bear with me, I will tell you my
circumstances. It will serve to relieve me, and may interest you, and
prove that I am really what I profess to be, an escaped prisoner."

"Certainly, let us hear it. Go on," said the major.

Thus encouraged, the youth proceeded:

"My name is George Le Dell; and I am the youngest son of General
Le Dell, of the Confederate army. My home is, or rather was, on
the Washita River, about ten miles from this very place. When I was
seventeen years of age, I was sent North to complete my education,
at Yale College, and was just about commencing my senior year, when I
received this letter from my father."

Here George paused, and drew from his pocket a bundle of papers,
carefully tied up, and, producing a letter, from which the writing was
almost obliterated, he handed it to Frank, who read aloud as follows:

CATAHOOLA PARISH, _February_ 12, 1861.

MY DEAR GEORGE:

Your letter of the 2d ult. was duly received.

Although your ideas of the civil war, to which you seem to look