must reach its goal, though it marched on a road of human hearts.

The soldier set his teeth and turned to the little rebel, deciding on
his course of action; best for her, best for the man who lay in the
loft above, though now it must seem a brutal cruelty to both.

"Well, Virgie," he said, "since you haven't told me what I want to know,
I'll have to take you--and give you to the Yankees."

He stepped toward her swiftly and caught her by the wrist. She screamed
in terror, fighting to break his hold, while the trap above them opened,
and the head and shoulders of the Southerner appeared, his pistol held
in his outstretched hand.

"Drop it, you hound!" he ordered fiercely. "Drop it!"

The Northerner released his captive, but stood unmoved as he looked into
the pistol's muzzle and the blazing eyes of the cornered scout.

"I'm sorry," he said, in quiet dignity. "I'm very sorry; but I had to
bring you out." He paused, then spoke again: "And you needn't bother
about your gun. If you'd had any ammunition, our fire would have been
returned, back yonder in the woods. The game's up, Cary. Come down!"




CHAPTER VI