"I don't think I shall," replied Prescott. "I've changed my intention about it—at least, for the present."
The affair had clung to his mind and the result of his second thought was a resolution to keep it to himself a while longer. He had formed a suspicion, but it might be wrong, and he would not willingly do injustice to any one, least of all to a woman. Her face, when he saw her close at hand, looked pure and good, and now that he recalled it he could remember distinctly that there had been in it a touch of reproach and the reproach was for him—she had seemed to ask why he annoyed her. No, he would wait before speaking of her to his friends.
Talbot regarded Prescott for a moment with an inquiring gaze, but said nothing more upon the subject.
Prescott left his friends at the Capitol and spent the remainder of the day with his mother, who on the plea of age had avoided the reception and the festivities, although she now had many questions to ask.
"I hear that great enthusiasm was shown and brilliant predictions were made," she said.
"It is quite true," he replied. "The music, the speeches and the high spirits, which you know are contagious in a crowd, have done good, I think, to the Southern cause."
"Did Morgan bring any new recruits for General Lee's army?"
"Now, mother," replied Prescott, laughing a little, "don't let your Northern blood carry you too far. I know, too, that wars are not won by music and shouting, and days like to-day bring nothing substantial—merely an increase of hope; but after all, that is what produces substantial results."
She smiled and did not answer, but went on quietly with her sewing. Prescott watched her for awhile and reflected what a beautiful woman his mother must have been, and was yet, for that matter.
"Mother," he said presently, "you do not speak it aloud, but you cannot disguise from me the fact that you think it would be better for the North to win."
She hesitated, but at last she said:
"I cannot rejoice whichever way this war ends. Are you not on the side of the South? All I can pray for is that it may end quickly."
"In your heart, mother, you have no doubt of the result."
She made no reply, and Prescott did not pursue the subject.
CHAPTER VI
THE PURSUIT OF A WOMAN
The silver lining which the reception to General Morgan put in the cloud always hanging over Richmond lasted until the next day, when the content of the capital was rudely shattered by news that important papers had been stolen from the office of the President in the granite building on Bank Street. The exact value of these papers the public did not know, but they contained plans, it was said, of the coming campaign and exact data concerning the military and financial condition of the Confederacy. They were, therefore, of value alike to the Government and its enemies, and great was the noise over their disappearance.
The theft, so supposition ran, was committed while nearly all the officials were present at the festivities of the preceding day, and when the guard about the public offices, never very strict, was relaxed more than usual. But the clue stopped there, and, so far as the city could hear, it bade fair to remain at that point, as the crush of great affairs about to decide the fate of a nation would not permit a long search for such a secret spring, though the leakage might prove expensive.
"Probably some faithless servant who hopes to sell them to the North for a large reward," said Raymond to Prescott.
"I think not," replied Prescott with emphasis.
"Ah, you don't? Then what do you think?" asked Raymond, looking at him sharply.
"A common spy," replied Prescott, not wishing to be surprised into further disclosure of his thought. "You know such must be here. In war no city or army is free from spies."
"But that's a vague generalization," said Raymond, "and leads to nothing."
"True," said Prescott, but he intended a further inquiry into the matter on his own account, and this he undertook as soon as he was free from others. He was perhaps better fitted than any one else in Richmond for the search, because he had sufficient basis upon which to build a plan that might or might not lead to a definite issue.
He went at once to the building in which the President had his office, where, despite the robbery of the day before, he roamed about among the rooms and halls almost as he pleased, inquiring and making suggestions which might draw from the attendants facts to them of slight importance. Yes, visitors had been there the day before, chiefly ladies, some from the farther South, drawn by veneration for their beloved President and a wish to see the severe and simple offices from which the destiny of eleven great States and the fate of the mightiest war the world had ever known was directed.
And who were the ladies? If their names were not known, could not a description of their appearance be given? But no one had any definite memory on these points; they were just like other sightseers. Was there a tall woman with a brown cloak among them? Prescott put this question to several people, but drew no affirmative reply until he found an old coloured man who swept the halls. The sweeper thought that he did remember seeing such a figure on the lower floor, but he was not sure, and with that Prescott was forced to be content.
He felt that his search had not been wholly in vain, leading as it did to what might be called the shadow of a clue, and he resolved to continue it. There had been leaks before in the Confederacy, some by chance and some by design, notably an instance of the former when Lee's message to his lieutenant was lost by the messenger and found by a Northern sympathizer, thus informing his opponents of his plan and compelling him to fight the costly battle of Antietam. If he pursued this matter and prevented its ultimate issue, he might save the Confederacy far more than he could otherwise.
Richmond was a small city, difficult of entrance without a pass, and for two or three days Prescott, abandoning the society of his friends, trod its streets industriously, not neglecting the smallest and meanest among them, seeking always a tall figure in a brown dress and brown cloak. It became an obsession with him, and, as he now recognized, there was even more in it than a mere hunt for a spy. This woman troubled him; he wished to know who and what she was and why she, a girl, had undertaken a task so unfitting. Yet war, he remembered, is a destroyer of conventions, and the mighty upheaval through which the country was going could account for anything.
He found on the third day his reward in another glimpse of the elusive and now tantalizing brown figure under the brow of Shockoe Hill, strolling along casually, as if the beauty of the day and the free air of the heavens alone attracted.
The brown dress had been changed, but the brown cloak remained the same, and Prescott felt a pang of remorse lest he had done an injustice to a woman who looked so innocent. Until this moment he had never seen her face distinctly, save one glimpse, but now the brown hood that she wore was thrown back a little and there shone beneath it clear eyes of darkest blue, illuminating a face as young, as pure, as delicate in outline as he could have wished for in a sister of his own. No harm could be there. A woman who looked like that could not be engaged upon an errand such as he suspected, and he would leave her undisturbed.
But, second thought came. He put together again all the circumstances, the occasions upon which he had seen her, especially that day of the Morgan reception, and his suspicions returned. So he followed her again, at a distance now, lest she should see him, and was led a long and winding chase about the capital.
He did not believe that she knew of his presence, and these vague meanderings through the streets of Richmond confirmed his belief. No one with a clear conscience would leave such crooked tracks, and what other purpose could she have now save to escape observation until the vigilance of the sentinels, on edge over the robbery, should relax a little and she could escape through the cordon of guards that belted in Richmond.
She passed at last into an obscure side street and there entered a little brown wooden cottage. Prescott, watching from the corner, saw her disappear within, and he resolved that he would see her, too, when she came out again. Therefore he remained at the corner or near it, sauntering about now and then to avoid notice, but always keeping within a narrow circle and never losing sight of the house.
He was aware that he might remain there a long time, but he had a stiff will and he was bent upon solving this problem which puzzled and irritated him.
It was about the middle of the afternoon when he traced her to the cottage, but the fragment of the day remaining seemed long to him. Golden shadows hung over the capital, but at last the sun went down in a sea of flame and the cold night of winter gathered all within its folds.
Prescott shivered as he trod his beat like a policeman, but he was of a tenacious fiber, and scorning alike the warnings of cold and hunger, he remained near the house, drawing closer and watching it more zealously than ever in the moonlight. His resolution strengthened, too; he would stay there, if necessary, until the sunset of the next day.
More hours passed at a limping gait. The murmur of the city died, and all was dark and still in the side street. Far into the night, nearly twelve, it must have been, when a figure stole from the cottage and glanced up the little ravine toward the main street, where Prescott stood invisible in the shadow of a high wooden fence.
She did not come by the front door, but stole out from the rear. He was convinced that he was right in his suspicions, and now every action of this unknown woman indicated guilt to his mind.
He crouched down in an angle of the fence, hidden completely by its shadow and the night, though he could see her well as she came up the little street, walking with light step and watching warily on every side. He noticed even then how strong and elastic her figure appeared and that every step was instinct with life and vitality. She must be a woman of more than common will and mould.
She came on, slightly increasing her speed, and did not see the dark figure of the man by the fence. A hood was drawn to her eyes and a fold of her cloak covered her chin. He could see now only a wisp of face like a sickle of a silver moon, and the feeling that disturbed him in the day did not return to him. He again imagined her cold and hard, a woman of middle age, battered by the world, an adventuress who did not fear to go forth in the night upon what he thought unholy errands.
She entered the main street, passed swiftly down it toward the barriers of the city, and Prescott, with noiseless footsteps, came behind; one shadow following the other.
None save themselves seemed to be abroad. The city was steeped in Sabbath calm and a quiet moon rode in a quiet heaven. Prescott did not stop now to analyze his feelings, though he knew that a touch of pique, and perhaps curiosity, too, entered into this pursuit, otherwise he should not have troubled himself so much with an unbidden task. But he was the hunter and she the hunted, and he was alive now with the spirit of the chase.
She turned toward the northwest, where the lines of earthwork were thinnest, where, in fact, a single person might slip between them in the darkness, and Prescott no longer had any doubt that his first surmise was correct. Moreover, she was wary to the last degree, looking cautiously on every side and stopping now and then to see that she was not followed. A fine moon sometimes shed its full rays upon her, and she seemed then to Prescott to be made of silver mist.
He, too, was most wary, knowing the need of it, and allowed the distance between them to lengthen, clinging meanwhile to the shadow of buildings and fences with such effect that when she looked back she never saw the man behind.
They passed into the suburbs, low and straggling, little groups of negro cabins stringing out now and then in the darkness, and the woman, save for her occasional pauses to see if she were pursued, kept a straight and rapid course as if she knew her mind and the way.
They came at last to a spot where there was a small break in the earthworks, and Prescott saw the sentinels walking their beats, gun on shoulder. Then the fugitive paused in the shadow of bushes and high grass and watched attentively.
The pursuit had become curiously unreal to Prescott. It seemed to him that he was in the presence of the mysterious and weird, but he was resolute to follow, and he wished only that she should resume her flight.
When the sentinels were some distance apart she slid between like a shadow, unseen and unheard, and Prescott, an adept at pursuit, quickly followed. They were now beyond the first line of earthworks, though yet within the ring of Richmond's outer defenses, but a single person with ordinary caution might pass the latter, too.
He followed her through bushes and clumps of trees which hung like patches of black on the shoulders of the hills, and he shortened the space between them, not caring now if she saw him, as he no longer had any doubt of her purpose. He looked back once and saw behind him an almost imperceptible glow which he knew was the city, and then on the left beheld another light, the mark of a Confederate fortress, set there as a guard upon the ways.
She turned to the right, leaving the fortress behind, passing into country still more desolate, and Prescott thought it was now time to end the pursuit. He pressed forward with increased speed, and she, hearing the sound of a footstep behind her, looked back. He heard in the dead stillness of the night the low cry of fright that broke from her. She stood for a moment as if the power of motion had departed, and then fled like a wounded deer, with Prescott, more than ever the hunter, swiftly following after.
He was surprised at her speed. Clearly she was long-limbed and strong, and for the time his energies were taxed to keep within sight of her fleeing figure. But he was a man, she a woman, and the pursuit was not long. At last she sank, panting, upon a fallen log, and Prescott approached her, a strange mingling of triumph and pity in his heart.
She looked up and there was appeal in her face. Again he saw how young she was, how pure the light of her eyes, how delicately moulded each feature, and surprise came, as a third emotion, to mingle with the triumph and pity, and not in a less degree.
"Ah, it is you," she said, and in her tone there was no surprise, only aversion.
"Yes, it is I," replied Prescott; "and you seemed to have expected me."
"Not in the way that you think," she replied haughtily.
A wonderful change came over her face, and her figure seemed to stiffen; every lineament, every curve expressed scorn and contempt. Prescott had never before seen such a remarkable transformation, and for the moment felt as if he were the guilty one and she the judge.
While he was wondering thus at her attractive personality, she rose and stood before him.
"Now, sir," she said, "you shall let me go, Mr.——Mr.——"
"I am Captain Robert Prescott of the Confederate Army," said Prescott. "I have nothing to conceal," and then he added significantly: "At present I am on voluntary duty."
"I have seen enough of you," she said in the same unbending tone. "You have given me a fright, but now I am recovered and I bid you leave me."
"You mistake, Madam or Miss," replied Prescott calmly, recovering his composure; "you and I have not seen enough of each other. I am a gentleman, I hope, at least I have passed for one, and I have no intent to insult you."
"What is your wish?" she asked, still standing before him, straight and tall, her tone as cold as ice.
"Truly," thought Prescott, "she can carry it off well, and if such business as this must be done by a woman, hers is a mind for the task." But aloud he said: "Madam—or—Miss—you see you are less frank than I; you do not supply the omission—certain documents important to the Government which I serve, and as important to our enemies if they can get them, were taken yesterday from the office of the President. Kindly give them to me, as I am a better custodian for them than you are."
Her face remained unchanged. Not by a single quiver of the lip or gleam of the eye did she show emotion, and in the same cold, even voice she replied:
"You are dreaming, Captain Prescott. Some freak of the fancy has mastered you. I know nothing of the documents. How could I, a woman, do such a thing?"
"It is not more strange than your flight from Richmond alone and at such an hour."
"What signifies that? These are times of war and strange times demand strange conduct. Besides, it concerns me alone."
"Not so," replied Prescott firmly; "give me the papers."
Her face now changed from its calm. Variable emotions shot over it. Prescott, as he stood there before her, was conscious of admiration. What vagary had sent a girl who looked like this upon such a task!
"The papers," he repeated.
"I have none," she replied.
"If you do not give them to me I shall be compelled to search you, and that, I fancy, you do not wish. But I assure you that I shall do it."
His tone was resolute. He saw a spark of fire in her eye, but he did not quail.
"I shall turn my back," he added, "and if the papers are not produced in one minute's time I shall begin my search."
"Would you dare?" she asked with flashing eyes.
"I certainly would," he replied. "I trust that I know my duty."
But in a moment the light in her eyes changed. The look there was an appeal, and it expressed confidence, too. Prescott felt a strange tremour. Her glance rested full upon him and it was strangely soft and pathetic.
"Captain Prescott," she said, "upon my honour—by the memory of my mother, I have no papers."
"Then what have you done with them?" said Prescott.
"I have never had any."
He looked at her doubtfully. He believed and yet he did not. But her eyes shone with the light of purity and truth.
"Then why are you out here at such an hour, seeking to escape from Richmond?" he asked at last.
"Lest I bring harm to another," she said proudly.
Prescott laughed slightly and at once he saw a deep flush dye her face, and then involuntarily he made an apology, feeling that he was in the presence of one who was his equal.
"But I must have those papers," he said.
"Then keep your threat," she said, and folding her arms proudly across her breast she regarded him with a look of fire.
Prescott felt the blood rising in his face. He could not fulfil his menace and now he knew it.
"Come," he said abruptly, "you must go back to Richmond with me. I can take you safely past the earthworks and back to the house from which you came; there my task shall end, but not my duty."
However, he comforted himself with the thought that she had not passed the last line of defenses and perhaps could not do so at another time.
The girl said nothing, but walked obediently beside him, tall, straight and strong. She seemed now to be subdued and ready to go wherever he directed.
Prescott recognized that his own position in following the course that he had chosen was doubtful. He might turn her over to the nearest military post and then his troubles concerning her would be at an end; but he could not choose that alternative save as a last resort. She had made an appeal to him and she was a woman, a woman of no ordinary type.
The night was far gone, but the moon was full, and now spread its veil of silver mist over all the hills and fields. The earth swam in an unreal light and again the woman beside Prescott became unreal, too. He felt that if he should reach out his hand and touch her he would touch nothing but air, and then he smiled to himself at such a trick of fancy.
"I have given you my name," he said. "Now what shall I call you?"
"Let it go for the time," she replied.
"I must, since I have no way to compel you," he said.
They approached the inner line of earthworks through which they had passed in the flight and pursuit, and now Prescott felt it his duty to find the way back, without pausing to reflect on the strangeness of the fact that he, a Confederate soldier, was seeking to escape the notice of the Confederate pickets for the sake of a spy belonging to the other side.
They saw again the sentinels walking back and forth, gun on shoulder, and waiting until they were farthest apart, Prescott touched the woman on the arm. "Now is our time," he said, and they slid with soundless footsteps between the sentinels and back into Richmond.
"That was well done!" said Prescott joyfully. "You can shut an army out of a town, but you can't close the way to one man or two."
"Captain Prescott," said the girl, "you have brought me back into Richmond. Why not let me go now?"
"I take you to the house from which you came," he replied.
"That is your Southern chivalry," she said, "the chivalry of which I have heard so much."
He was stung by the keen irony in her tone. She had seemed to him, for awhile, so humble and appealing that he had begun to feel, in a sense, her protector, and he did not expect a jeer at the expense of himself and his section. He had been merciful to her, too! He had sacrificed himself and perhaps injured his cause that he might spare her.
"Is a woman who plays the part of a spy, a part that most men would scorn, entitled to much consideration?" he asked bluntly.
She regarded him with a cold stare, and her figure stiffened as he had seen it stiffen once before.
"I am not a spy," she said, "and I may have reasons, powerful reasons, of which you know nothing, for this attempted flight from Richmond to-night," she replied; "but that does not mean that I will explain them to you."
Prescott stiffened in his turn and said with equal coldness:
"I request you, Madam or Miss, whichever you may be, to come with me at once, as we waste time here."
He led the way through the silent city, lying then under the moonlight, back to the little street in which stood the wooden cottage, neither speaking on the way. They passed nobody, not even a dog howled at them, and when they stood before the cottage it, too, was dark and silent. Then Prescott said:
"I do not know who lives there and I do not know who you are, but I shall consider my task ended, for the present at least, when its doors hide you from me."
He spoke in the cold, indifferent tone that he had assumed when he detected the irony in her voice. But now she changed again.
"Perhaps I owe you some thanks, Captain Prescott," she said.
"Perhaps, but you need not give them. I trust, madam, and I do not say it with any intent of impoliteness, that we shall never meet again."
"You speak wisely, Captain Prescott," she said.
But she raised the hood that hid her brow and gave him a glance from dark blue eyes that a second time brought to Prescott that strange tremour at once a cause of surprise and anger. Then she opened the door of the cottage and disappeared within.
He stood for a few moments in the street looking at the little house and then he hurried to his home.
CHAPTER VII
THE COTTAGE IN THE SIDE STREET
Prescott rose the next morning with an uneasy weight upon his mind—the thought of the prisoner whom he had taken the night before. He was unable to imagine how a woman of her manner and presence had ever ventured upon such an enterprise, and he contrasted her—with poor results for the unknown—with Helen Harley, who was to him the personification of all that was delicate and feminine.
After the influence of her eyes, her beauty and her voice was gone, his old belief that she was really the spy and had stolen the papers returned. She had made a fool of him by that pathetic appeal to his mercy and by a simulated appearance of truth. Now in the cold air of the morning he felt a deep chagrin. But the deed was past and could not be undone, and seeking to dismiss it from his mind he went to breakfast.
His mother, as he had expected, asked him nothing about his late absence the night before, but spoke of the reception to General Morgan and the golden haze that it cast over Richmond.
"Have you noticed, Robert," she asked, "that we see complete victory for the South again? I ask you once more how many men did General Morgan bring with him?"
"I don't know exactly, mother. Ten, perhaps."
"And they say that General Grant will have a hundred thousand new troops."
Prescott laughed.
"At that rate, mother," he replied, "the ten will have to whip the hundred thousand, which is a heavier proportion than the old one, of one Southern gentleman to five Yankees. But, seriously, a war is not won by mere mathematics. It is courage, enthusiasm and enterprise that count."
She did not answer, but poured him another cup of coffee. Prescott read her thoughts with ease. He knew that though hers had been a Southern husband and hers were a Southern son and a Southern home, her heart was loyal to the North, and to the cause that she considered the cause of the whole Union and of civilization.
"Mother," he said, the breakfast being finished, "I've found it pleasant here with you and in Richmond, but I'm afraid I can't stay much longer. My shoulder is almost cured now."
He swung his arm back and forth to show how well it was.
"But isn't there some pain yet?" she asked.
Prescott smiled a little. He saw the pathos in the question, but he shook his head.
"No, mother," he replied, "there is no pain. I don't mean to be sententious, but this is the death-grapple that is coming. They will need me and every one out there."
He waved his hand toward the north and his mother hid a little sigh.
Prescott remained at home all the morning, but in the afternoon he went to Winthrop's newspaper office, having a direct question in mind.
"Has anything more been heard of the stolen papers?" he asked of Winthrop.
"So far as I can learn, nothing," replied the editor; "but it's altogether likely that whoever took them has been unable to escape from the city. Besides, I understand that these plans were not final and the matter may not be so serious after all."
It seemed to Prescott in a moment of cold reason that the affair might well end now, but his desire would not have it so. He was seized with a wish to know more about that house and the woman in it. Who was she, why was she here, and what would be her fate?
The afternoon passed slowly, and when the night was advanced he set out upon his errand, resolved that he would not do it, and yet knowing that he would.
The little house was as silent and dark as ever, doors and shutters tightly closed. He watched it more than an hour and saw no sign of life. She must have gone from the city, he thought, and so concluding, he was about to turn away, when a hand was laid lightly upon his arm. It was the woman in brown, and the look upon her face was not all of surprise. It occurred suddenly to Prescott that she had expected him, and he wondered why. But his first question was rough.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Nothing that I wish," she replied, the faintest trace of humour showing in her tone; "much that I do not wish. The reproof that your voice conveys is unwarranted. I have tried again to leave Richmond, but I cannot get past the outer lines of defenses. I am the involuntary guest of the rebel capital."
"Hardly that," replied Prescott, still somewhat roughly. He did not relish her jaunty tone, although he was much relieved to know that she could not escape. "You came uninvited, and you have no right to complain because you cannot leave when you wish."
"I see that I am in the presence of a sincere rebel patriot," she said with irony, "and I did not know before that the words 'rebel' and 'patriot' could go together so easily."
"I think that I should surrender you to the authorities," said Prescott.
"But you will not," she said with conviction. "Your conscience would reproach you too much."
Prescott was silent, uncertain what to say or to do. The woman annoyed him, and yet he did not conceal from himself that the slight protecting feeling, born of the fact that she was a woman and, it seemed, helpless, remained in his mind.
"Are you alone in that house?" he asked, still speaking curtly and pointing toward the wooden cottage.
Prescott looked at her inquiringly. He thought that he detected the faintest twinkle in her eyes. Could it be that a woman in such a position was laughing at the man who had helped her? He felt his face grow red.
"You wish to know who is there?" she said.
"I do not wish to know anything of the kind."
"You do, and I shall tell you. It is merely a woman, an old maid, perhaps as friendless as myself, Miss Charlotte Grayson. I need not add that she is a woman of right mind and sympathies."
"What do you mean by that?"
"She wishes to see the quick end of this hateful rebellion. Oh, I tell you there are many who think as she does, born and bred within the limits of this Confederacy. They are far more numerous than you rebels suspect."
She spoke with sudden fire and energy, and Prescott noticed again that abrupt stiffening of the figure. He saw, too, another curious effect—her eyes suddenly turned from dark-blue to black, an invariable change when she was moved by a passion.
"It is always safe for a woman to abuse a man," replied Prescott calmly.
"I am not attacking you, but the cause you serve—a hateful cause. How can honest men fight for it?" she said.
Prescott heard footsteps in the main street—it was not many yards from there to the point in the little side street where he stood—and he shrank back in the shadow of the fence.
"You do not wish to be seen with me," she said.
"Naturally," replied Prescott. "I might have to answer inquiries about you, and I do not wish to compromise myself."
"Nor me?" she said.
"Perhaps it is too late for that," replied Prescott.
Her face flushed scarlet, and again he saw that sudden change of the eyes from dark-blue to threatening black. It occurred to him then that she was handsome in a singular, challenging way.
"Why do you insult me?" she asked.
"I was not aware that I had done so," he replied coolly. "Your pursuits are of such a singular nature that I merely made some slight comment thereon."
She changed again and under drooping eyelids gave him that old imploring look, like the appeal of a child for protection.
"I am ungrateful," she said, "and I give your words a meaning that you do not intend. But I am here at this moment because I was just returning from another vain attempt to escape from the city—not for myself, I tell you again, and not with any papers belonging to your Government, but for the sake of another. Listen, there are soldiers passing."
It was the tread of a company going by and Prescott shrank still farther back into the shadow. He felt for the moment a chill in his bones, and he imagined what must be the dread of a traitor on the eve of detection. What would his comrades say of him if they caught him here? As the woman came close to him and put her hand upon his arm, he was conscious again of the singular thrill that shot through him whenever she touched him. She affected him as no other woman had ever done—nor did he know whether it was like or dislike. There was an uncanny fascination about her that attracted him, even though he endeavoured to shake it off.
The tread of the company grew louder, but the night was otherwise still. The moon silvered the soldiers as they passed, and Prescott distinctly saw their features as he hid there in the dark like a spy, fearing to be seen. Then he grew angry with himself and he shook the woman's hand from his arm; it had rested as lightly as dew.
"I think that you had better go back to Miss Charlotte Grayson, whoever she may be," he said.
"But one cannot stay there forever."
"That does not concern me. Why should it? Am I to care for the safety of those who are fighting me?"
"But do you stop to think what you are fighting for?" She put her hand on his arm, and her eyes were glowing as she asked the question. "Do you ever stop to think what you are fighting for, the wrong that you do by fighting and the greater wrong that you will do if you succeed, which a just God will not let happen?"
She spoke with such vehement energy that Prescott was startled. He was well enough accustomed to controversy about the right or wrong of the war, but not under such circumstances as these.
"Madam," he said, "we soldiers don't stop in the middle of a battle to argue this question, and you can hardly expect me to do so now."
She did not reply, but the fire still lingered in her eyes. The company passed, their tread echoed down the street, then died away.
"You are safe now," she said, with the old touch of irony in her voice; "they will not find you here with me, so why do you linger?"
"It may be because you are a woman," replied Prescott, "that I overlook the fact of your being a secret and disguised enemy of my people. I wish to see you safely back in the house there with your friends."
"Good-night," she said abruptly, and she slid away from him with soundless tread. He had noticed her noiseless walk before, and it heightened the effect of weird mystery.
She passed to the rear of the house, disappearing within, and Prescott went away. When he came back in a half-hour he noticed a light shining through one window of the little house, and it seemed more natural to him, as if its tenant, Miss Charlotte Grayson, had no reason to hide her own existence. Prescott was not fond of secrecy—his whole nature was open, and with a singular sense of relief he turned away for the second time, going to Winthrop's office, where he hoped to find more congenial friends.
Raymond, as he expected, was there with his brother editor, and so was Wood, the big cavalryman, who regarded Robert for a moment with an eye coldly critical. Raymond and Winthrop, who stood by, knew the cause, but Wood quickly relaxed and greeted with warmth the addition to the party. Others came in, and soon a dozen men who knew and liked each other well were gathered about the stove, talking in the old friendly Southern way and exchanging opinions with calm certainty on all recondite subjects.
After awhile Winthrop, who passed near the window on some errand, exclaimed:
"Gentlemen, behold Richmond in her bridal veil."
They looked out and saw the city, streets and roofs alike, sheeted in gleaming white. The snow which had come down so softly spoke only of peace and quietness.
"It's battle smoke, not a bridal veil, that Richmond must look for now," said Wood, "an' it's a pity."
There was a touch of sentiment in his voice, and Prescott looked at him with approval. As for himself, he was thinking at that moment of an unknown woman in a brown, wooden cottage. With the city snowed-in she might find the vigilance of the sentinels relaxed, but a flight through the frozen wilderness would be impossible for her. He was angry at himself again for feeling concern when he should be relieved that she could not escape; but, after, all she was a woman.
"Why so grave, Prescott?" asked Raymond. "A heavy snow like this is all in our favour, since we stand on the defensive; it makes it more difficult for the Yankee army to move."
"I was thinking of something else," replied Prescott truthfully. "I am going home now," he added. "Good-night."
As he passed out into the street the snow was still falling, soon covering his cap and military cloak, and clothing him, like the city, in a robe of white.
Raymond had said truthfully that a deep snow was to the advantage of the South, but as for himself, he resolved that on the next day he would investigate the identity of Miss Charlotte Grayson.
Prescott knew to whom it was best to turn for information in regard to the mysterious Charlotte Grayson, and in the doing so it was not necessary for him to leave his own home. His mother was likely to know everybody at all conspicuous in Richmond, as under her peaceful exterior she concealed a shrewd and inquiring mind.
"Mother," he said to her the next day as they sat before the fire, "did you ever hear of any lady named Miss Charlotte Grayson?"
She was knitting for the soldiers at the front, but she let the needles drop with a faint click into her lap.
"Grayson, Charlotte Grayson?" she said. "Is that the name of a new sweetheart of yours, Robert?"
"No, mother," replied he with a laugh; "it is the name of somebody whom I have never seen so far as I know, and of whom I never heard until a day or two ago."
"I recall the woman of whom you speak," she said, "an old maid without any relatives or any friends in particular. She was a seamstress here before the war. It was said that she went North at its outbreak, and as she was a Northern sympathizer it would seem likely; but she was a good seamstress; she made me a mantle once and I never saw a better in Richmond."
She waited for her son to offer an explanation of his interest in the whilom seamstress, but as he did not do so she asked no questions, though regarding him covertly.
He rose and, going to the window, looked out at the deep and all but untrodden snow.
"Richmond is in white, mother," he said, "and it will postpone the campaign which all Southern women dread."
"I know," she replied; "but the battle must come sooner or later, and a snow in Richmond means more coal and wood to buy. Do you ever think, Robert, what such questions as these, so simple in peace, mean now to Richmond?"
"I did not for the moment, mother," he replied, his face clouding, "but I should have thought of it. You mean that coal and wood are scarce and money still scarcer?"
She bowed her head, for it was a very solemn truth she had spoken. The coil of steel with which the North had belted in the South was beginning to press tighter and tighter during that memorable winter. At every Southern port the Northern fleets were on guard, and the blockade runners slipped past at longer and longer intervals. It was the same on land; everywhere the armies of the North closed in, and besides fire and sword, starvation now threatened the Confederacy.
There was not much news from the field to dispel the gloom in the South. The great battle of Chickamauga had been won not long before, but it was a barren victory. There were no more Fredericksburgs nor Chancellorsvilles to rejoice over. Gettysburg had come; the genius of Lee himself had failed; Jackson was dead and no one had arisen to take his place.
There were hardships now more to be feared than mere battles. The men might look forward to death in action, and not know what would become of the women and children. The price of bread was steadily rising, and the value of Confederate money was going down with equal steadiness.
The soldiers in the field often walked barefoot through the snow, and in summer they ate the green corn in the fields, glad to get even so little; but they were not sure that those left behind would have as much. They were conscious, too, that the North, the sluggish North, which had been so long in putting forth its full strength, was now preparing for an effort far greater than any that had gone before. The incompetent generals, the tricksters and the sluggards were gone, and battle-tried armies led by real generals were coming in numbers that would not be denied.
At such a time as this, when the cloud had no fragment of a silver lining, the spirit of the South glowed with its brightest fire—a spectacle sometimes to be seen even though a cause be wrong.
"Mother," said Prescott, and there was a touch of defiance in his tone, "do you not know that the threat of cold and hunger, the fear that those whom we love are about to suffer as much as ourselves, will only nerve us to greater efforts?"
"I know," she replied, but he did not hear her sigh.
He felt that his stay in Richmond was now shortening fast, but there was yet one affair on his mind to which he must attend, and he went forth for a beginning. His further inquiries, made with caution in the vicinity, disclosed the fact that Miss Charlotte Grayson, the occupant of the wooden cottage, and the Miss Charlotte Grayson whom his mother had in mind, were the same. But he could discover little else concerning her or her manner of life, save an almost positive assurance that she had not left Richmond either at the beginning of the war nor since. She had been seen in the streets, rarely speaking to any one, and at the markets making a few scanty purchases and preserving the same silence, ascribed, it was said, to the probable belief on her part that she would be persecuted because of her known Northern sympathies. Had any one been seen with her? No; she lived all alone in the little house.
Such were the limits of the knowledge achieved by Prescott, and for lack of another course he chose the direct way and knocked at the door of the little house, being compelled to repeat his summons twice before it was answered. Then the door was opened slightly; but with a soldier's boldness he pushed in and confronted a thin, elderly woman, who did not invite him to be seated.
Prescott took in the room and its occupant with a single glance, and the two seemed to him to be of a piece. The former—and he knew instinctively that it was Miss Grayson—was meager of visage and figure, with high cheek bones, thin curls flat down on her temples, and a black dress worn and old. The room exhibited the same age and scantiness, the same aspect of cold poverty, with its patched carpet and the slender fire smouldering on the hearth.
She stood before him, confronting him with a manner in which boldness and timidity seemed to be struggling with about equal success. There was a flush of anger on her cheeks, but her lips were trembling.
"I am speaking to Miss Grayson?" said Prescott.
"You are, sir," she replied, "but I do not know you, and I do not know why you have pushed yourself into my house."
"My name is Prescott, Robert Prescott, and I am a captain in the Confederate Army, as you may see by my uniform."
He noticed that the trembling of her lip increased and she looked fearfully at him; but the red flush of anger on her cheek deepened, too. The chief impression that she made on Prescott was pathetic, standing there in her poverty of dress and room, and he hastened to add:
"But I am here on my own private business; I have not come to annoy you. I merely want to inquire of a woman, a lodger of yours."
"I have no lodgers," she replied; "I am alone."
"I don't think I can be mistaken," said Prescott; "she told me that she was staying in this house."
"And may I ask the name of this lady who knows more about my own house than I do?" asked Miss Grayson with unconcealed sarcasm.
Prescott saw that her courage was now getting the better of her timidity. He hesitated and felt his cheeks redden.
"I do not know," he was forced to reply.
Miss Grayson's gaze became steady and triumphant.
"Does it not then occur to you, Captain Prescott, that you are proceeding upon a very slender basis when you doubt my word?"
"It is hardly that, Miss Grayson," he replied. "I thought—perhaps—that it might be an evasion, pardonable when it is made for a friend whom one thinks in danger."
His eye roamed around the room again and it caught sight of something disclosed to him for the first time by the sudden increase of the flickering blaze on the hearth. A flash of triumph appeared in his eye and his boldness and certainty returned to him.
"Miss Grayson," he said, "it is true that I do not know the name of the lady of whom I speak, but I have some proof of her presence here."
Miss Grayson started and her lips began to tremble again.
"I do not know what you mean," she said.
"I ask for the wearer of this," said Prescott, taking a long brown cloak from the chair on which it lay and holding it up before Miss Grayson's eyes.
"Then you ask for me," she replied bravely; "the cloak is mine."
"I have seen it several times before," said Prescott, "and it was always worn by some one else."
He looked significantly at her and he saw again the nervous trembling of the lip, but her eye did not quail. This woman, with her strange mingling of timidity and courage, would certainly protect the unknown if she could.
"The cloak is mine," she repeated. "It is a question of veracity between you and me, and are you prepared to say that you alone tell the truth?"
Prescott hesitated, not fancying this oblique method of attack, but a third person relieved them both from present embarrassment. A door to an inner apartment opened, and the woman in brown—but not in brown now—came into the room.
"You need not conceal my presence any longer, Charlotte," said the newcomer impressively. "I thank you, but I am sure that we need no protection from Captain Prescott."
"If you think so, Lucia," replied Miss Grayson, and Prescott distinctly heard her sigh of relief—a sigh that he could have echoed, as he had begun to feel as if he were acting not as a gentleman, but as a persecutor of a poor old maid. The girl—Lucia was her first name, he had learned that much—confronted him, and certainly there was no fear in her gaze. Prescott saw, too, at the first glance, that she was transformed. She was dressed in simple white, and a red rose, glowing by contrast against its whiteness, nestled in her throat. He remembered afterward a faint feeling of curiosity that in the dead of winter she should be wearing such a rose. Her eyes, black when she was angry, were now a deep, liquid blue, and the faint firelight drew gleams of red or gold, he knew not which, from her hair; the hair itself looked dark.
But it was her presence, her indefinable presence that pervaded the room. The thin little old maid was quite lost in it, and involuntarily Prescott found himself bowing as if to a great lady.
"I have meant no harm by coming here," he said; "the secrets of this house are safe as far as I am concerned. I merely came to inquire after your welfare. Miss—Miss——"
He stopped and looked inquiringly at her. A faint smile curved the corners of her mouth, and she replied:
"Catherwood; I am Miss Lucia Catherwood, but for the present I have nothing more to say."
"Catherwood, Lucia Catherwood," repeated Prescott. "It is a beautiful name, like——"
And then, breaking off abruptly, warned by a sudden lightning glance from her eyes, he walked to the window and pointed to the white world outside.
"I came to tell you, Miss Catherwood," he said, "that the snow lies deep on the ground—you know that already—but what I wish to make clear is the impossibility of your present escape from Richmond. Even if you passed the defenses you would almost certainly perish in the frozen wilderness."
"It is as I told you, Lucia," said Miss Grayson; "you must not think of leaving. My house is your house, and all that is here is yours."
"I know that, Charlotte," replied Miss Catherwood, "but I cannot take the bread from your mouth nor can I bring new dangers upon you."
She spoke the last words in a low tone, but Prescott heard her nevertheless. What a situation, he thought; and he, a Confederate soldier, was a party to it! Here in the dim little room were two women of another belief, almost another land, and around them lay the hostile city. He felt a thrill of pity; once more he believed her claim that she did not take the papers; and he tapped uneasily on the window pane with a long forefinger.
"Miss Catherwood," he said hesitatingly—that he should address her and not Miss Grayson seemed entirely proper—"I scarcely know why I am here, but I wish to repeat that I did not come with any bad intent. I am a Confederate soldier, but the Confederacy is not yet so far reduced that it needs to war on women."
Yet he knew as he spoke that he had believed her a spy and his full duty demanded that he deliver her to his Government; but perhaps there was a difference between one's duty and one's full duty.
"I merely wished to know that you were safe here," he continued, "and now I shall go."
"We thank you for your forbearance, Captain Prescott," said the elder woman, but the younger said nothing, and Prescott waited a moment, hoping that she would do so. Still she did not speak, and as she moved toward the door she did not offer her hand.
"She has no thanks for me, after all that I have done," thought Prescott, and there was a little flame of anger in his heart. Why should he trouble himself about her?
"Ladies," he said, with an embarrassed air, "you will pardon me if I open the door an inch or two and look out before I go. You understand why."
"Oh, certainly," replied Miss Catherwood, and again that faint smile lurked for a moment in the corners of her mouth. "We are Pariahs, and it would ill suit the fair fame of Captain Prescott to be seen coming from this house."
"You are of the North and I of the South and that is all," said Prescott, and, bowing, he left, forgetting in his annoyance to take that precautionary look before opening wide the door.
But the little street was empty and he walked thoughtfully back to his mother's house.
CHAPTER VIII
THE PALL OF WINTER
The deep snow was followed by the beginning of a thaw, interrupted by a sudden and very sharp cold spell, when the mercury went down to zero and the water from the melting snow turned to ice. Richmond was encased in a sheath of gleaming white. The cold wintry sun was reflected from roofs of ice, the streets were covered with it, icicles hung like rows of spears from the eaves, and the human breath smoked at the touch of the air.
And as the winter pressed down closer and heavier on Richmond, so did the omens of her fate. Higher and higher went the price of food, and lower and lower sank the hopes of her people. Their momentary joy under the influence of such events as the Morgan reception was like the result of a stimulant or narcotic, quickly over and leaving the body lethargic and dull. But this dullness had in it no thought of yielding.
On the second day of the great cold all the Harleys came over to take tea with Mrs. Prescott and her son, and then Helen disclosed the fact that the Government was still assiduous in its search for the spy and the lost documents.
"Mr. Sefton thinks that we have a clue," she said, identifying herself with the Government now by the use of the pronoun.
Prescott was startled a little, but he hid his surprise under a calm voice when he asked:
"What is this clue, or is it a secret?"
"No, not among us who are so loyal to the cause," she replied innocently; "and it may be that they want it known more widely because here in Richmond we are all, in a way, defenders of the faith—our faith. They say that it was a woman who stole the papers, a tall woman in a brown dress and brown cloak, who entered the building when nearly everybody was gone to the Morgan reception. Mr. Sefton has learned that much from one of the servants."
"Has he learned anything more?" asked Prescott, whose heart was beating in a way that he did not like.
"No, the traces stop at that point; but Mr. Sefton believes she will be found. He says she could not have escaped from the city."
"It takes a man like Sefton to follow the trail of a woman," interrupted Colonel Harley. "If it were not for the papers she has I'd say let her go."
Prescott had a sudden feeling of warmth for Vincent Harley, and he now believed a good heart to beat under the man's vain nature; but that was to be expected: he was Helen Harley's brother. However, it did not appeal to Helen that way.
"Shouldn't a woman who does such things suffer punishment like a man?" she asked.
"Maybe so," replied the Colonel, "but I couldn't inflict it."
The elder Harley advanced no opinion, but he was sure whatever Mr. Sefton did in the matter was right; and he believed, too, that the agile Secretary was more capable than any other man of dealing with the case. In fact, he was filled that day with a devout admiration of Mr. Sefton, and he did not hesitate to proclaim it, bending covert glances at his daughter as he pronounced these praises. Mr. Sefton, he said, might differ a little in certain characteristics from the majority of the Southern people, he might be a trifle shrewder in financial affairs, but, after all, the world must come to that view, and hard-headed men such as he would be of great value when the new Southern Republic began its permanent establishment and its dealings with foreign nations. As for himself, he recognized the fact that he was not too old to learn, and Mr. Sefton was teaching him.
Prescott listened with outward respect, but the words were so much mist to his brain, evaporating easily. Nor did Mr. Harley's obvious purpose trouble him as much as it had on previous occasions, the figure of the Secretary not looming so large in his path as it used to.
He was on his way, two hours later, to the little house in the side street, bending his face to a keen winter blast that cut like the edge of a knife. He heard the wooden buildings popping as they contracted under the cold, and near the outskirts of the town he saw the little fires burning where the sentinels stopped now and then on their posts to warm their chilled fingers. He was resolved now to protect Lucia Catherwood. The belief of others that the woman of the brown cloak was guilty aroused in him the sense of opposition. She must be innocent!
He knocked again at the door, and as before it did not yield until he had knocked several times. It was then Miss Charlotte Grayson who appeared, and to Prescott's heightened fancy she seemed thinner and more acidulous than ever. There was less of fear in her glance than when he came the first time, but reproach took its place, and was expressed so strongly that Prescott exclaimed at once:
"I do not come to annoy you, Miss Grayson, but merely to inquire after yourself and your friend, Miss Catherwood."
Then he went in, uninvited, and looked about the room. Nothing was changed except the fire, which was lower and feebler; it seemed to Prescott that the two or three lumps of coal on the hearth were hugging each other for scant comfort, and even as he looked at it the timbers of the house popped with the cold.
"Miss Catherwood is still with you, is she not?" asked Prescott. "My errand concerns her, and it is for her good that I have come."
"Why do you, a Confederate officer, trouble yourself about a woman who, you say, has acted as a spy for the North?" asked Miss Grayson, pointedly.
Prescott hesitated and flushed. Then he answered:
"I hope, Miss Grayson, that I shall never be able to overlook a woman in distress."
His eyes wandered involuntarily to the feeble fire, and then in its turn the thin face of Miss Grayson flushed. For a moment, in her embarrassment, she looked almost beautiful.
"Miss Catherwood is still here, is she not?" repeated Prescott. "I assure you that I came in her interest."
Miss Grayson gave him a look of such keenness that Prescott saw again the strength and penetration underlying her timid and doubtful manner. She seemed to be reassured and replied:
"Yes, she is here. I will call her."
She disappeared into the next room and presently Miss Catherwood came forth alone. She held her head as haughtily as ever, and regarded him with a look in which he saw much defiance, and he fancied, too, a little disdain.
"Captain Prescott," she said proudly, "I am not an object for military supervision."
"I am aware of that," he replied, "and I do not mean to be impolite, Miss Catherwood, when I say that I regret to find you still here."
She pointed through the window to the white and frozen world outside.
"I should be glad enough to escape," she said, "but that forbids."
"I know it, or at least I expected it," said Prescott, "and it is partly why I am here. I came to warn you."
"To warn me! Do I not know that I am in a hostile city?"
"But there is more. The search for those missing papers, and, above all, for the one who took them—a tall woman in a brown cloak, they say—has not ceased, nor will it; the matter is in the hands of a crafty, persistent man and he thinks he has a clue. He has learned, as I learned, that a woman dressed like you and looking like you was in the Government building on the day of the celebration. He believes that woman is still in the city, and he is sure that she is the one for whom he seeks."
Her face blanched; he saw for the first time a trace of feminine weakness, even fear. It was gone, however, like a mist before a wind, as her courage came back.
"But this man, whoever he may be, cannot find me," she said. "I am hidden unless some one chooses to betray me; not that I care for myself, but I cannot involve my generous cousin in such a trouble."
Prescott shook his head.
"Your trust I have not merited, Miss Catherwood," he said. "If I had chosen to give you up to the authorities I should have done so before this. And your confidence in your hiding place is misplaced, too. Richmond is small. It is not a great city like New York or Philadelphia, and those who would conceal a Northern spy—I speak plainly—are but few. It is easy to search and find."
Prescott saw her tremble a little, although her face did not whiten again, nor did a tear rise to her eye. She went again to the window, staring there at the frozen world of winter, and Prescott saw that a purpose was forming in her mind. It was a purpose bold and desperate, but he knew that it would fail and so he spoke. He pointed out to her the lines of defenses around Richmond, and the wilderness beyond all, buried under a cold that chained sentinels even to their fires; she would surely perish, even if she passed the watch.
"But if I were taken," she said, "I should be taken alone and they would know nothing of Miss Grayson."
"But I should never give up hope," he said. "After all, the hunted may hide, if warned, when the hunter is coming."
She gave him a glance, luminous, grateful, so like a shaft of light passing from one to another that it set Prescott's blood to leaping.
"Captain Prescott," she said, "I really owe you thanks."
Prescott felt as if he had been repaid, and afterward in the coolness of his own exclusive company he was angry with himself for the feeling—but she stirred his curiosity; he was continually conscious of a desire to know what manner of woman she was—to penetrate this icy mist, as it were, in which she seemed to envelop herself.
There was now no pretext for him to stay longer, but he glanced at the fire which had burned lower than ever, only two coals hugging each other in the feeble effort to give forth heat. Prescott was standing beside a little table and unconsciously he rested his right hand upon it. But he slipped the hand into his pocket, and when he took it out and rested it upon the table again there was something between the closed fingers.
Miss Grayson returned at this moment to the room and looked inquiringly at the two.
"Miss Catherwood will tell you all that I have said to her," said Prescott, "and I bid you both adieu."
When he lifted his hand from the table he left upon it what the fingers had held, but neither of the women noticed the action.
Prescott slipped into the street, looking carefully to see that he was not observed, and annoyed because he had to do so; as always his heart revolted at hidden work. But Richmond was cold and desolate, and he went back to the heart of the city, unobserved, meaning to find Winthrop, who always knew the gossip, and to learn if any further steps had been taken in the matter of the stolen documents.
He found the editor with plenty of time on his hands and an abundant inclination to talk. Yes, there was something. Mr. Sefton, so he heard, meant to make the matter one of vital importance, and the higher officers of the Government were content to leave it to him, confident of his ability and pertinacity and glad enough to be relieved of such a task.
Prescott, when he heard this, gazed thoughtfully at the cobwebbed ceiling. There was yet no call for him to go to the front, and he would stay to match his wits against those of the great Mr. Sefton; he had been drawn unconsciously into a conflict—a conflict of which he was perhaps unconscious—and every impulse in him told him to fight.
When he went to his supper that evening he found a very small package wrapped in brown paper lying unopened beside his plate. He knew it in an instant, and despite himself his face flooded with colour.
"It was left here for you an hour ago," said his mother, who in that moment achieved a triumph permitted to few mothers, burying a mighty curiosity under seeming indifference.
"Who left it, mother?" asked Prescott, involuntarily.
"I do not know," she replied. "There was a heavy knock upon the door while I was busy, and when I went there after a moment's delay I found this lying upon the sill, but the bringer was gone."
Prescott put the package in his pocket and ate his supper uneasily.
When he was alone in his room he drew the tiny parcel from his pocket and took off the paper, disclosing two twenty-dollar gold pieces, which he returned to his pocket with a sigh.
"At least I meant well," he said to himself.
A persistent nature feeds on opposition, and the failure of his first attempt merely prepared Prescott for a second. The affair, too, began to absorb his mind to such an extent that his friends noticed his lack of interest in the society and amusements of Richmond. He had been well received there, his own connections, his new friends, and above all his pleasing personality, exercising a powerful influence; and, coming from the rough fields of war, he had enjoyed his stay very keenly.
But he had a preoccupation now, and he was bent upon doing what he wished to do. Talbot and the two editors rallied him upon his absence of mind, and even Helen, despite her new interest in Wood, looked a little surprised and perhaps a little aggrieved at his inattention; but none of these things had any effect upon him. His mind was now thrown for the time being into one channel, and he could not turn it into another if he wished.
On the next morning after his failure he passed again near the little wooden house, the day being as cold as ever and the smoke of many chimneys lying in black lines against the perfect blue-and-white heavens. He looked at the chimney of the little wooden cottage, and there, too, was smoke coming forth; but it was a thin and feeble stream, scarcely making even a pale blur against the transparent skies. The house itself appeared to be as cold and chilly as the frozen snow outside.
Prescott glanced up and down the street. An old man, driving a small wagon drawn by a single horse, was about to pass him. Prescott looked into the body of the wagon and saw that it contained coal.
"For sale?" he asked.
The man nodded.
"How much for the lot?"
"Twenty dollars."
"Gold or Confederate money?"
The old man blew his breath on his red woolen comforter and thoughtfully watched it freeze there, then he looked Prescott squarely in the face and asked: