I leaped for the door, and grasped the musket, barely straightening up, as the oncoming horseman swung around the corner.  It was a desperate chance, yet in this darkness he could scarcely distinguish color of uniform or shape of features.  It might work; it was worth trying.  I saw the dim outlines of horse and rider in a red glow, as though the latter held a cigar between his lips; then I swung forward my gun.

“Halt! who comes?”

Startled by the sudden challenge, the horse reared to the sharp jerk at the reins, the man uttering an oath as he struggled to control the beast.

“Hell!  What’s this?”

“A sentry post; answer up, or I’ll call the guard—­who are you?”

“An officer on special service.”  “Dismount, and give the word.”

He swung reluctantly down, growling, yet with sufficient respect for my cocked musket to be fairly civil, and stepped up against the lowered barrel, his horse’s rein in hand.

“Atlanta,” he whispered.

My gun snapped back to a carry, my only thought an intense anxiety to have him off as quickly as possible.

“Pass officer on special service.”

He paused, puffing at his cigar.

“What’s the best way to the house, sentry?” he asked with apparent carelessness, “along the fence there?”

“The road runs this side, you can’t miss it,” I replied civilly enough, but stepping back so as to increase our distance.

“Ah, yes—­thanks.”

He flipped the ash from his cigar, drawing at the stub so fiercely the red glow reflected directly into my eyes.  He stared a moment, then turned, and thrust a foot into the stirrup.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before, my man.”

“I was at the gate when you came through just before dark.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, apparently satisfied, and swung up lightly into the saddle.  “So you recognize me, then?”

“Captain Le Gaire, is it not?  The sergeant said so.”

He believed he had me completely deceived, that I entertained no suspicion he had also recognized me, and that therefore he could play me a sharp trick.  I was not sure, for the man acted his part rarely well, only that I knew it was not in Le Gaire’s nature to be so excessively polite.  What was his game, I wondered, gripping my musket with both hands, my eyes following his every motion.  Would he venture an attack alone, or ride on and report me to the guard?  I had little enough time in which to speculate.  He gathered up the reins in one hand, his horse cavorting; he had probably found somewhere a fresh mount.  I stepped aside, but the animal still faced me, and with high-flung head partially concealed his rider.  Suddenly the latter dug in his spurs, and the beast leaped straight at me, front hoofs pawing the air.  I escaped as by a hair’s breadth, one iron shoe fairly grazing my shoulder, but, with the same movement, I swung the clubbed musket.  He had no time to