The corporal of the guard goes back to the bivouac, leading the two arrivals.  One is a scout, a plainsman born and bred, the other a sergeant of cavalry.  They dismount in the timber and picket their horses, then follow on foot the lead of their companion of the guard.  While the corporal and the scout proceed to the wagon-fly and fumble at the opening, the tall sergeant stands silently a little distance in their rear, and the occupants of a neighboring shelter—­the counterpart of the colonel’s—­begin to stir, as though their light slumber had been broken by the smothered sound of footsteps.  One of them sits up and peers out at the front, gazing earnestly at the tall figure standing easily there in the flickering light.  Then he hails in low tones: 

“That you, Mr. Jerrold?  What is the matter?”

And the tall figure faces promptly towards the hailing voice.  The spurred heels come together with a click, the gauntleted hand rises in soldierly salute to the broad brim of the scouting-hat, and a deep voice answers, respectfully,—­

“It is not Mr. Jerrold, sir.  It is Sergeant McLeod, ——­th Cavalry, just in with despatches.”

Armitage springs to his feet, sheds his shell of blankets, and steps forth into the glade with his eyes fixed eagerly on the shadowy form in front.  He peers under the broad brim, as though striving to see the eyes and features of the tall dragoon.

“Did you get there in time?” he asks, half wondering whether that was really the question uppermost in his mind.

“In time to save the survivors, sir; but no attack will be made until the infantry get there.”

“Were you not at Sibley last month?” asks the captain, quickly.

“Yes, sir,—­with the competitors.”

“You went back before your regimental team, did you not?”

“I—­No, sir:  I went back with them.”

“You were relieved from duty at Sibley and ordered back before them, were you not?”

Even in the pallid light Armitage could see the hesitation, the flurry of surprise and distress, in the sergeant’s face.

“Don’t fear to tell me, man:  I would rather hear it than any news you could give me.  I would rather know you were not Sergeant McLeod than any fact you could tell.  Speak low, man, but tell me here and now.  Whatever motive you may have had for this disguise, whatever anger or sorrows in the past, you must sink them now to save the honor of the woman your madness has perilled.  Answer me, for your sister’s sake:  are you not Fred Renwick?”

“Do you swear to me she is in danger?”

“By all that’s sacred; and you ought to know it.”

“I am Fred Renwick.  Now what can I do?”

XVIII.