My lady of the South. Randall Parrish
she was safe in the care of friends. We were between the lines of two hostile armies, in a debatable country, where every possible form of danger might lurk, where bands of irresponsible guerillas, deserters, and fleeing conscripts, roamed unchecked by any authority, where no woman alone in the night could be considered safe for an instant. No fear of her threatening pistol kept me even thus far to the rear, but I sympathized with her, comprehended her outraged feelings, realizing how, in that moment of discovery, she must hate my very presence. And she was right; I had acted the part of a cur; I deserved to be cut by the lash of her tongue, even to be shot dead, if I dared so much as to touch her. Yet it hurt me, hurt me more than I had before supposed any denunciation by a woman possibly could, and I spurred forward grimly, with heart hotly pulsing. I was everything she said, yet it had not come home to me in full force, in all its hideousness, until she said it. Her bitter words stung like a whip, stung all the more sharply because I knew they were deserved.
I rode silently, keeping a tight rein, so as not to gain upon her too rapidly, guided straight by the sound of her swift galloping. The night settled down, darker if possible than before, even the few stars which had been visible, disappearing behind the canopy of clouds. I could see nothing ahead except an occasional spark of fire struck off from the flinty rock by her mare's flying feet. All else was the void of night, out of which arose alone the sound of our reckless riding. It seemed to me we must have fully covered that quarter of a mile back to where she had indicated the branch road as leading down toward Fairview yet there was no turning, or pause in the swift pace. Apparently the little mare was being urged desperately forward through the black void, headed directly west along the same ridge road we had previously travelled together. There was an opening between the walls of rocks to my left, visible even in that darkness, and I drew up the roan sharply, swinging myself instantly to the ground, and feeling about hastily with my feet for the ruts of a travelled roadway. Ay! this must surely be the place: here beyond all doubt ran the way leading south into the valley. There could be no other road branching off at this point. Yet the girl was riding directly westward, riding at full speed, her horse's hoofs sounding fainter each moment.
I stood there an instant, puzzled, uncertain. Then the truth came to me in a flash. She suspected I had overheard more than I had confessed; that I knew of the projected movement of the Gray army, and that it was now my purpose to warn the Blue. That was why she had called me "spy"; that was why she was now riding straight on at top speed, desperately, through the night, bearing a message of warning to Johnston. With a single bound I was back in the saddle, bent forward over the roan's neck, and driving in the spur. I must overtake her, and I could do it. I was astride of far the better horse, stronger, longer limbed, and I must ride as recklessly as she. I was conscious of little except the necessity of the moment, pushing into the black void as though astride a thunderbolt, the night air whistling past my face, my legs gripping the straining body of the roan, my spur constantly urging him to greater effort. And he responded nobly. Slowly, steadily, remorselessly I began drawing in on the chase; I could see nothing, but my ears gave evidence. That she also realized what was occurring behind became sufficiently clear a moment later; out of that shrouding blackness in my front winked two red spits of fire, and I heard a bullet whistle shrilly as it zipped past my head. But I thundered on regardless, merely extending my body along the roan's neck; there was small danger from such shots and I comprehended anew the desperation of the girl, the determination with which she sought to thwart me. A stern chase is proverbially a long one, and I must have b»en still fully a hundred feet in her rear, speeding like a whirlwind, my horse running with belly low, and neck extended, the foam from his nostrils blowing back in my face, when there was a stumble, a cry, the dull shock of a fall I reined up with a suddenness which nearly unseated me and swung down from the saddle, peering and listening. Some accident had occurred—but what? There was no sound, not even a moan or struggle yonder in the dark. Slowly pushed forward on foot, the tired, panting animal trailing along after me.
All excitement and exhilaration of the chase were gone. There was nothing in my heart now but sympathy for this girl; her supreme effort to be of service to her cause had aroused my deepest respect. What had happened to her? In a measure I already knew—her laboring mare had stumbled in the darkness, and gone down, flinging her headlong. That she had been hurt, seriously hurt, the silence seemed to indicate—but how seriously? I went forward quaking, my heart beating like that of a timid girl in the dark. I came first upon the gray mare, a motionless smudge in the road, lying head under, in such a posture I knew instantly the animal's neck had been broken. Fully ten feet beyond the girl lay, just at the edge of the track, her face upturned to the clouded skies dropped upon my knees, drew off her gauntlet glove and felt her wrist. There was a noticeable pulse; an instant later I was enabled to distinguish the faint pulsations of the heart. Unconscious though she was, the terrible fall had not killed her. There was water in the canteen dangling at my saddle bow, and I ran back to where the roan stood, and began hastily to bathe the white face, the contour of which I could barely perceive. Very slowly the returning breath came in greater volume through the parted lips, and I lifted her slightly upon one arm, with head resting against my shoulder. I felt a slight trembling of the slender form, and realized, although I could see nothing, that her eyes were open. Suddenly she wrenched herself away from me, sitting erect, holding herself in that posture of protest by pressing her hands against the ground.
"Am—am I hurt?" she questioned, her voice tremulous, her mind apparently still dazed from the shock.
"You have had an ugly fall, and were rendered unconscious, but I do not think you are severely injured."
"And my horse?"
"The mare broke her neck."
She was silent for a moment, her breath rapid from excitement; then her head drooped, and I caught the sound of half-suppressed sobs.
"Please do not cry," I urged, with all a man's fear of a breakdown. "I am very sure you are not badly hurt, and you are too brave a girl tc give way like this."
In an awkward effort at comfort I placed my hand gently upon her shoulder. The slight familiarity aroused her instantly.
"How dare you touch me," she exclaimed, all signs of weakness vanishing. "I do not wish either your help or sympathy, you despicable Yankee spy."
"But listen first—"
"No, I will not listen; your words, your very presence is an insult. I would have killed you if I could; I will kill you now if you speak to me again, or make any attempt to follow me."
I was aware she yet held the revolver in her hand, andrealized she was keyed to the point of using it, yet I was not silenced.
"Where do you intend going?"
"That is no affair of yours. On foot I am helpless to thwart you, Mr. Spy, so now you can let me alone."
"Then it is true that you were attempting to ride for the Confederate lines?"
She did not answer, but endeavored to struggle weakly to her feet. Scarcer was her slender figure erect when she uttered a sharp cry of anguish. and sank limply back again. both hands clasped about her ankle.
"What is it?"
"My—my ankle; oh, it pains me so!"
"You must permit me to examine it," I said firmly, stooping forward as I spoke. fully determined now to have my own way. "You had a hard fall; it may be sprained, or even broken. In either case the shoe must be removed immediately, before it begins to swell."
The pain and helplessness of her position had made woman of her again. Doubtless she realized the utter futility of further resistance, for she silently permitted me to unlace the shoe, and run my hand softly over the injured ankle. I could feel her wince at the pain of my touch, her fingers clinched tightly.
"It is merely a sprain," I announced at last. "I am very certain no bone has been broken. However, the injury is certainly had enough, and precludes any thought of walking."
She stared toward me through the darkness, conscious of her inability to revolt, yet with the old spirit of rebellion still dominant.
"Then leave me here; it will