the sharp intake of breath. Again the blows crashed, as if struck by the butt of a musket.
"Open up in there!" roared a voice, so muffled as to have no familiar sound, "or we'll break down the door. Come, Mister Spy; we've got you trapped."
"Sergeant Wyatt, the lieutenant wants yer," the whispered words swept down the line of waiting men, and I hurried forward. Harwood was in the dark vestibule close beside the big door.
"That you, Wyatt?" he asked softly, uncertain as to my identity. "They are after you, and have no idea anyone else is here. You answer, and warn them what they're up against. I don't mind a fight, but am hardly ready to commit murder."
"Do you hear me in there, Wyatt?" the gruff voice without called. "This is your last chance; come, don't be a fool. We know you are there, and there couldn't a rat get out, and not be seen."
"Who are you?" I asked. "I want to know who I am dealing with first."
"I am Major Moran, Twenty-first Ohio Infantry."
"Is Captain Fox there?"
"Yes—here Fox; the fellow wants to talk with you."
There was a sound of movement without, the murmur of a word or two spoken in subdued tones; then
