“Pull up,” I said; “do you think I’m playing with you?”

He drew in on the reins, letting the whip drop between his feet, and the pony slowed down to a walk, and finally stopped.  I could catch merely a glimpse of the man’s profile beneath the broad brim of the hat, but his coolness and silence aroused my suspicions.

“No tricks now,” I threatened.  “If you value your life do exactly as I say.”

“Who are you?” It was a rich contralto voice, that of a boy rather than a man, the slight blur of the South distinguishable even in those few words.

“Only a Yankee, son,” I replied, satisfied I held the upper hand, and clambering in over the back of the seat.  He shrank back from contact with me farther into the corner, but there was nothing in the slight movement to cause alarm.  I laughed softly.

“Don’t exactly admire my color of uniform, do you?” I asked easily.  “Well, I can’t help that, and you’ll not find me such a bad fellow if you act right.  Where were you going in such a hurry?”

There was no answer.  I could hear his rapid breathing, and catch a glimpse of a beardless cheek.

“Don’t you intend to tell me?”

Still silence, the shapeless figure motionless.

“Come, Billie,” I urged, “what is the use of keeping up this game?”

He straightened up in surprise, startled into speech.

“You—­you call me what?  Why do you say ’Billie’?”

“Because I’m on.  I haven’t been hanging to the back of this outfit for the last eight miles just for fun, or exercise either.  I’m after those despatches you’re taking to Beauregard.”

“Oh!”

“That’s the state of affairs, and the sooner you hand over those particular papers, Billie, the quicker this revolver play ends.  Where are they?”

“I haven’t any,” the slightly tremulous note had gone out of the voice.  It was firm with purpose now, even a bit sarcastic.  “You’ve merely got on the wrong trail, Yank.  I reckon you mistook me for Billie Hardy.”

“I reckon I did,” I returned, mocking him, “and I ’m still satisfied I’ve got the right party.  You don’t get out that easy, son; come now, produce.”

“Suppose I don’t.”

“Then there won’t be much argument,” I returned sharply, beginning to lose patience.  “I’ll simply take them, if I have to shoot you first.  Come now, which shall it be?”

He straightened up, convinced apparently of my intentions.

“Neither, Mr. Yankee,” indignantly.  “I told you once you were mistaken.  Now I’ll prove it—­see here!” The soft hat was whipped off the head, and the slender figure leaned forward to where the slight gleam of the stars rendered the face visible.  “Do you make war on women?”

I was too astounded for reply; dumfounded, dazed by this evidence of my stupidity.  This was a woman beyond all doubt—­her hair, released by the sudden removal of the hat, swept in a dark wave over her shoulders, and she flung it back with a movement of the hand.  The gleam of the stars gave me the contour of her face, and the sparkle of her eyes.  A woman, young, pretty—­and actually laughing at me, her white teeth clearly visible.  Whatever of conceit or audacity may be part of my nature, deserted me in a flash, and I could only stare in helpless amazement.