“Good bye, old friend,” said Beverly.  “We have met strangely to-night, and sadly.  Pray heaven we may not meet more sadly on the battle-field.”

“Tell Oriana,” replied Harold, “that I am with her in my prayers.”  He had not spoken of her before, although Beverly had mentioned that she was at the old manor house, and well.  “I have not heard from Arthur,” he continued, “for I have been much about upon scouting parties since I came, but I doubt not he is well, and I may find a letter when I return to camp.  Good bye; and may our next meeting see peace upon the land.”

They parted, and the carriage, with Beverly riding at its side, moved slowly into the darkness, and was gone.

Harold returned into the farm-house, and found Moll seated where he had left her, and still gazing fixedly at the floor.  He did not disturb her, but paced the floor slowly, lost in his own melancholy thoughts.  After a silence of some minutes, the woman spoke, without looking up.

“Have they gone?”

“Yes.”

“She is dying, ain’t she?”

“I fear she is very ill.”

“I tell you, she’s dying—­and it’s better that she is.”

She then relapsed into her former mood, but after a while, as Harold paused at the window and looked out, she spoke again.

“Will it soon be day?”

“Within an hour, I think,” replied Harold.  “Do you go back at daylight?”

“Yes.”

“You have no horse?”

“You’ll lend me one, won’t you?  If you don’t, I don’t care; I can walk.”

“We will do what we can for you.  What is your business at the camp?”

“Never mind,” she answered gruffly.  And then, after a pause, she asked: 

“Is there a man named Searle in your army—­Philip Searle?”

“Nay, I know not.  There may be.  I have never heard the name.  Do you seek such a person?  Is he your friend, or relative?”

“Never mind,” she said again, and then was silent as before.

With the approach of dawn, the sentry challenged an advancing troop, which proved to be the relief picket guard.  Harold saluted the officer in command, and having left orders respectively with their subordinates, they entered the farm-house together, and proceeded to the apartment where Moll still remained seated.  She did not seem to notice their entrance; but when the new-comer’s voice, in some casual remark, reached her ear, she rose up suddenly, and walking straight forward to where the two stood, looking out at the window, she placed her hand heavily, and even rudely, upon his shoulder.  He turned at the touch, and beholding her, started back, with not only astonishment, but fear.

“You needn’t look so white, Philip Searle,” she said at last, in a low, hoarse tone.  “It’s not a ghost you’re looking at.  But perhaps you’re only angry that you only half did your business while you were at it.”

“Where did you pick up this woman?” asked Searle of Harold, drawing him aside.