"Huh! who told yer that?"
I stepped aside, but still held him under the muzzle of my revolver. The change in posture brought the man face to face with Noreen; I saw him lean forward, and gaze at her; then recoil, as though he viewed a ghost. She never moved, never spoke.
"Good Lord!" he muttered. "Is that Harwood's girl?"
"Yes; now you know how I know, and that there is nothing but war between us. The lady is my wife."
His face was ashen gray, his thin lips set in a straight, hard line.
"Your wife! and you in that Yankee uniform! Who the hell are you? Why you are a blame liar! You told me you was a Confed, sergeant of artillery, and—your wife! Why, damn it, man, the major never even knew yer!"
"He failed to recognize me," I admitted. "But I'll tell you who I am, and how I came here. I am Thomas Wyatt, the son of Judge Wyatt, who used to hold court in Lewisburg. You ought to remember him, for you were before him twice—you and your son Anse; and I am, as I told you before, a sergeant of artillery in the Confederate service."
"Ther hell yer say."
