# My Lady of the South/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI
THE ACCIDENT
SURPRISED I certainly was by this unexpected outburst. Scarcely realizing previously the indomitable spirit of the girl, before the sound of her mare's flying hoofs had ceased to echo along the hard road, I had given my roan the rein, and was spurring speedily after. I intended to keep within sound at least, nor would I desert her until 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 not be long until morning."
"I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you consider me devoid of every attribute of manhood? You would not be safe here alone, even if uninjured. We are between the lines of two hostile armies, in a debatable land where guerillas and bushwhackers must be numerous enough. Not if I have to remain here with you until daylight, and thus face almost certain capture, will I desert you now. I want you to do what is right, and do it willingly. If you refuse I shall be obliged to use my greater strength to compel obedience."
"What do you mean? What is it you plan for me to do?"
"I intend taking you upon my own horse as far as Fairview, and I will leave you there safe with your friends."
"And—and then?"
"Then, of course, I propose riding at once for the lines of my own army."
She drew a quick breath, straightening her shoulders.
"And do you imagine I will ever permit that?" she questioned fiercely "I am a Southern girl, armed, and I know what you mean to do, Mister Spy."
I stood up before her quietly in the gloom.
"You can certainly shoot me if you wish," I acknowledged soberly. "Perhaps you might be justified in such an act. I am not going to disarm you, nor make any ​effort to prevent your doing as you desire. But if you do not shoot me, I intend doing my very best to take you safely to Fairview."
I think we were there for a long moment, motionless, speechless, staring toward each other's dim shadow through the darkness. Neither face was sufficiently visible for recognition, yet I could imagine the expression upon hers, as she sat thus, desperately clasping the revolver in her nervous fingers, swayed by fierce emotion, yet helpless to stand alone upon her feet. I was not at all certain what she might do at such a moment of temptation, driven to it by a vivid sense of her own wrongs, as well as the urgent demand of her cause. She was a woman of strong will, of unquestioned courage, of deep conviction; scarcely more than a girl in years, it is true, yet with fighting blood in her veins, and an honest hatred for me in her heart. It was a somewhat ticklish situation, yet assuredly no time in which to hesitate.
"Come," I said, at last, holding out my hand, "Every moment of delay only serves to increase your suffering. I am going to lift you onto the horse."
She shrank back as though to avoid my touch, her movement picturing her intense aversion. It angered me, and, reckless of all consequences, I bent instantly down, and lifted her slight form in my arms. To my intense surprise she made no resistance, no struggle, no effort to break away. Her head rested against my arm, with face averted, but I could feel a shudder run through her body, as if a sudden reaction had brought with it weakness. I strode with my light burden to the side of ​the patiently waiting roan, finding place for her sound foot within the dangling stirrup.
"You will be compelled to ride man-fashion," I announced quietly. "I doubt if you could sit the saddle in any other way; but the night will protect you from observation. Kindly assist me in every way you can."
Whether it was my calm insistence, or merely her own sense of inability to resist longer, I do not know, but, for a single instant, I felt the weight of her hand upon my shoulder, and then she had found seat in the saddle, her head bowed forward, her hands clasping the pommel, as if the pain and exertion had left her faint. Somewhere in the passage, the uplifting, the revolver had slipped from her fingers, and then unnoticed into the blackness of the road. Without uttering a word I shortened the stirrup leather to meet her requirements, fastening the one opposite back, so it could not dangle against her injured ankle. Then I wet a silk neckerchief discovered in the pocket of the jacket I wore, sousing the cloth with water from the canteen, and bound it securely about the aching, swollen foot. If she realized what was being done, she gave no sign, and only as I grasped the horse's rein, and started forward on foot, did the girl raise her head in any sign of life. She swayed unsteadily to the first movements of the horse, and I glanced back apprehensively.
"Had I better bind you into the saddle?"
"No," the voice barely audible. "I shall not fall."
There was a long pause during which I could distinguish ​the sound of her breath coming almost in sobs; then she asked in sudden wonderment,
"Are—are you going to walk—all the way?"
"Certainly."
Again I could plainly distinguish the sob of her rapid breathing.
"I—I thank you."
That was all, yet I cannot fitly express the comfort, the encouragement, these few falteringly spoken words brought to me. They were so unexpected, so significant of the final awakening of her more womanly nature, as to yield me instantly a fresh vision of the girl. She had recognized kindness, even in an enemy, and had proven fair-minded enough to respond generously. Whatever might occur between us hereafter, she would never be able to remember me as before. I had been considerate to her, and she had openly acknowledged the consideration, yet I retained sufficient good sense to remain quiet: to push on silently through the black night, the roan plodding steadily at my heels. I did not even flatter myself that this slight outburst of gratitude would long endure. The old, disquieting thoughts would certainly soon recur to her mind-the memory of my treachery, my intentions, and, worse than all, my unfortunate relationship with her. Yet I had enjoyed that one glimpse into the deeps of her better nature, and remained content. She was certainly not one to brood over wrongs, to fan hatred, to refuse forgiveness; I even wondered vaguely if she were not secretly glad to be saved from Calvert Dunn, even at so great a cost.
​The return journey proved exceedingly slow, for the intense pain she suffered left her weak, and I durst not move faster than a walk, ever keeping watchful eye upon the dim outline of her form swaying in the saddle; yet we had not passed the branch road by as great a distance as I had supposed in our wild riding, and a comparatively few moments of steady plodding brought us to the cleft in the rocks.
"This is the road, is it not?"
She uplifted her head wearily.
"Yes; it is not far now to Fairview."
The path led downward, but not steeply, winding somewhat crazily among rocks and trees, until we finally emerged upon the smooth grass land of the lower valley. The silence here was profound, the brooding night seeming even more dense and lonely than upon the open ridge above. I felt my uncertain way forward, until the narrow road suddenly ended before a high gate. This I succeeded in opening without much difficulty, and we followed a gravelled driveway, which led circling to the front of what appeared in the gloom to be a house of considerable size. It was wrapped in darkness, no gleam of light anywhere giving evidence of occupancy. As I hesitated an instant at the foot of the steps leading upward to the front door, I felt her extended hand touch my shoulder.
"What are you going to say?—how explain my being here alone with you?"
I glanced back toward her, wishing I could read the meaning of her eyes, the expression of her face.
​"I was merely intending to name myself as a Confederate officer, a friend of Lieutnant Dunn, intrusted by him to bring you here for safety, owing to his having been suddenly ordered out on special duty."
"And—and my accident?"
"Your horse stumbled in the darkness, and fell, in consequence of which I was compelled to convey you on my own."
She drew a deep breath of relief.
"Yes, that will do—that will be best now; they need never know the whole truth."
I waited for an instant, hoping she would be led to add something more, but her lips remained silent. The expression of her face could not be seen, yet I knew she was leaning slightly forward, as though seeking vainly to decipher my features in the gloom.
"I feel that you have sufficient reason to dislike me," I began, anxious to uncover, if possible, her true feeling.
"I know I have, and yet I do not," she exclaimed impulsively, and as though surprised at her own frankness. "I cannot explain why; I ought to hate you for what you have done. Yet in all this trouble you have proven yourself kind, thoughtful, considerate, and I can only feel mortified, hurt, and regretful at my present helplessness."
"It is very good of you to confess even that."
"Oh, no, there is no goodness in it. I am simply accustomed to speaking the truth under all circumstances. It is an unpleasant habit acquired in childhood. You are nothing to me, and never can be; I would do everything in my power to thwart your present purpose; I believe ​I could shoot you down if I were still armed, and I know I would denounce you here and now, if there was any one at hand able to make you prisoner. We remain enemies, but—but, in some unaccountable way, I cannot personally hate you."
"You mean it is the Yankee, and not the man you war against?"
"I am certainly enlisted against your cause; nor have I any real reason to respect you otherwise."
"You consider me guilty then of deliberate treachery toward you?"
Her clear, accusing eyes were apparently gazing toward my shrouded face.
"Was it anything else?"
The blunt question came so swiftly that I stood hesitating. She was so frankly outspoken, so uncompromisingly direct, as to confuse me, yet in truth scarcely permitting any time for answer.
"What was it except treachery? You came to us falsely wearing that uniform which we respect; you came pretending to be another man; you obtained entrance to the sanctity of our home under an assumed name; you deliberately tricked me into a most unhappy and compromising position. Could any right-minded woman ever forgive all this? Is what you have done justified even by Yankee ethics?"
"No," I acknowledged gravely. "All the rest might be justified by the necessities of war, but not the personal injury which I have done you. Yet I am going to make that wrong as easy to remedy as I possibly can; I am ​going away now, the very moment I can feel assured you are in the care of friends. It is not at all probable we shall ever meet again, and any court will give you instant release. But first I desire to say this: Amid all the trials of to-night you have appealed to me, have won my deepest admiration and respect. I cannot bear to feel, however much it might be deserved, that you utterly despise me."
"I acknowledge I do not; I believe what you have told me, that you merely yielded to circumstances in the hope of saving yourself, and thus gaining opportunity to perform what you consider an imperative duty."
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart for saying that. Before we finally part would you accept my hand?"
I knew she straightened stiffly back in the saddle, her hands pressed against the pommel.
"Oh, no, I could not do that. You have no right to ask such a thing; not while you continue to wear falsely that uniform; not while you intend riding directly away from here planning to do injury to my people."
I bowed, and turned away, hat in hand, toward the steps. Her voice halted me.
"Be—before you knock," she questioned doubtfully, "would you tell me your name?"
"Certainly, you will need to know that; I had forgotten. I am Elbert King."
"An—an officer?"
"Not commissioned; merely a sergeant of artillery."
Whatever her secret thoughts might have been, they were securely hidden in silence and darkness. Young as ​she was in years she had already learned the lesson of control.
"I thank you; that was all."
I knocked twice before receiving any reply; then shuffling feet sounded within, and the voice of an aged man asked anxiously who was there.
"An officer of the Tenth Georgia Cavalry," I replied readily. "I have a lady with me who has been injured by a fall from her horse."
I heard him unbar the heavy door, opening it barely wide enough to peer cautiously forth. He had no light, yet I stood so close he doubtless was able to perceive my uniform. Before either of us could exchange words, the clear voice of the girl sounded from below.
"It is all right. Judge Dunn; I am Jean Denslow."
Our situation was explained in a few sentences, and, the Judge guiding me, I lifted her slender figure in my arms and bore her unresisting into the broad hallway. As he disappeared in a wheel chair propelled by a negro, seeking a light and assistance, I remained looking down to where I had deposited her on a comfortable haircloth couch.
"Is there anything more I can do?"
"No, nothing; I would much rather you would go before the others come."
"That will probably be best," reluctantly. "Yet I am beginning to wish I might come back again."
I heard the quick indrawing of her breath, but no spoken word.
"You will answer nothing?"
​"Only that I wish to forget this night utterly, utterly. If you are indeed a gentleman you will understand, and go."
There was certainly nothing more to linger for, nothing more to be said. I heard the stiff rustle of a dress on the stair, and knew her friends were coming down. My own night's work yet remained unaccomplished, and was urgent. I passed swiftly out and down the steps.