University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

Picter, walking backward up the glen, absorbed in
admiration of his own ingenious mode of torture, was
startled by a hurried cry from Dora.

“Picter, Picter, I say! Hurry! run! They're coming!”

“Whar? Who does you see, missy?” gasped the bewildered
negro, as he suddenly faced about, and saw his
young mistress flying up the ravine as fast as she could
get over the ground.

“The men — I saw the guns — they're in the — wood
—coming after us. Run! run!” panted Dora, without
slackening her speed.

Lumbering along as swiftly as he could, Pic followed
in her flying footsteps, but, keeping his head turned over
his shoulder, tumbled over a loose stone, and measured
his length upon the ground. At the same instant a rifle
ball whistled through the air where his head would have
been had he remained upright.

Dora stopped, saw that her old friend had fallen,
wounded or dead, as she supposed, and rushed back as
fast as she had fled.

“Go 'long, missy,” whispered the prostrate negro,
without stirring. “I isn' hurt; bud dey'll tink I's done
fer, an' won't min' me agin. Dey won't shoot you, bud
dey'll cotch you ef you waits. Cl'ar, I tell yer, 'fore dey
comes up.”

“O, Pic, I can't. They'll bayonet you, perhaps, even
if they do think you're dead. Can't you run?”

“No; dey'd on'y shoot agin, an' p'raps hit. Cl'ar,
honey. It's de bes' for bof.”

Dora, in an agony of doubt and terror, looked down
the ravine. Clarkson and Dick were bursting from the
underbrush just beyond the old pine, beneath which Bonaparte
still stood trembling, and, with a fierce cry of
triumph, were rushing towards them.

“I won't leave you, Picter — they're coming fast,”
said she, hoarsely.

At that moment the sound of horses' hoofs, ringing in
regular order along the rocky path crossing the head of
the ravine, struck upon the ears of both.

“Dere's de picket gwine out — holler, missy! Screech
yer pooties'!” exclaimed Pic, in an under tone.

Dora, without reply, snatched from her bosom the
silver whistle given her by Colonel Blank, and blew
through it a shrill succession of sounds in the order
agreed upon between her and Captain Karl, as a signal
of danger.

A loud shout responded from above, and a savage

curse from below, as the piercing sounds and their meaning
reached the ears of the federal soldiers and the rebel
scouts at the same moment.

To both Dora replied with a triumphant blast upon the
whistle, as the well-known faces of a score or so of her
friends, headed by Captain Karl and the chaplain, appeared
at the head of the ravine. But the joyous sound
had not died away before the crack of two rifles from the
wood below responded angrily, and two men fell wounded
to the earth.

“Sergeant Brazer, take a couple of files of men, and
see after those fellows,” said the captain, hastily. “Fosdick,
have these poor lads carried to the hospital. — Now,
Dora Darling, tell me, this minute, how you came here,
and where you've been, and how you dared give us such
a fright. We were just going to look after you, and the
whole regiment would have gone with us, if they'd got
leave.”

But Dora, who first had laughed and then tried to
speak, when she found herself once more in safety, was
now crying as if her heart would break. Even her elastic
courage and endurance were exhausted by the scenes
of the night and morning, and the heroine gave place to
the little girl, who longed for nothing so much as her
mother's arms.

Mr. Brown quietly seated himself upon the ground beside
her, and drew her head upon his breast. “Lie there,

Dora Darling, and cry all you will,” whispered he, tenderly.

Captain Karl posted himself at the other side, and Pic
jealously crept up to the feet of his little mistress; but
the child clung close to the strong heart so full of love
for her, and was comforted.

“Come, then, Pic, you shall tell the story,” said
Captain Karl, somewhat impatiently. “Where under
heaven have you both been, and how came you here
just now?”

Picter, nothing loath to narrate a tale where himself
played so conspicuous a part, commenced his narration
in a pompous style, considerably modified, as he went on,
by Captain Karl's frank comments upon his want of
judgment in falling into the trap, and in lingering upon
his escape until he came near being recaptured.

Dora, who gradually recovered her self-possession,
defended her sable ally with spirit, and Pic himself was
voluble in explanation and argument; so that the story
was not yet finished when Sergeant Brazer returned,
bringing the unfortunate Bonaparte as prisoner, and
reporting that he could find no trace of the rebel scouts.
Lieutenant Fosdick also reported the wounded soldiers
safely lodged in the hospital.

“Then I must go and take care of them,” said Dora,
springing to her feet.

“Will you have my horse, Dora Darling? I shall be

most happy to relinquish him, and will put you on into
the bargain.”

“No, I thank you, Captain Karl,” said Dora, blushing
brightly as her eyes met Mr. Brown's. “I had enough
of riding the other day, when we went foraging,” added
she, laughing.

“And I should have had altogether too much of it if
you hadn't been along, Do. `I reckon,' as we say here
in Virginia, you saved my life that time.”

“By `being along'? They don't say that in Virginia,
any way,” retorted Dora, mischievously.

“Nettle! When you live in New York with me,
you'll add `being along' to `reckon.”'

“But I'm not going to live in New York with you.
I'm going to Massachusetts when we're mustered out,”
said Dora.

“`When we're mustered out!' For goodness' sake,
chaplain, hear that midget talk!” exclaimed Captain
Karl.

“What do you think of going to Ohio to live with me,
Dora, when that time comes?” asked the chaplain,
pleasantly.

Dora glanced shyly from one to the other.

“I'd like best to live with the aunt I'm going to look
for, and have you both come and see me very often,”
said she.

“You little coquette! You want to secure us both,

do you, and keep your own liberty? There's the feminine
element cropping out with a vengeance!” exclaimed
the gay young captain. But Mr. Brown looked a little
disturbed at the turn given to the conversation, and Dora,
blushing angrily, made no reply.

“We're apt to forget what a little girl you are, after
all, Dora,” said the chaplain, pleasantly, as they reached
the entrance to the hospital, “you are so womanly in
many things.”

“And so manly in many more,” added Captain Windsor,
with a mocking salute, as he passed on.

Dora's eyes filled again with tears as she hastily sought
her own little tent; but when, a few moments later, she
reappeared, and went about her customary duties, her
face had resumed its usual sunny calm, and her manner
its wonted steadfastness.