the black something lying against the post. At first I deemed it a mere shadow, but the animal would not respond even to the spur, and I dismounted better to ascertain the cause of his fright. The negro lay there, dead as his master, a knife thrust in his heart. Then it was Taylor alone who had done the foul deed—and he had left no witnesses behind. Why had the fiend spared me in his bloody work? There could be but one reason—a thought in his cunning brain that I would be the one suspected—I, a helpless, unknown stranger, wearing the Confederate uniform, condemned by my own revolver lying beside the corpse—a hope that he would thus escape unfollowed. If he took such pains to cast suspicion on me, the man must have been aware that Major Harwood was not alone; that his death would be quickly discovered, and an effort made to avenge it.
There was nothing I could do, but flee swiftly through the night. My own position was now far too desperate to permit of my giving any alarm, or seeking to trace the murderer. To fall into Union hands would be my death-warrant, irrespective of Harwood's fate, and my duty lay in carrying out the orders of "Old Jack." To allow myself to be captured would spoil everything. Satisfied that the negro was indeed dead, I led my trembling horse past the motionless body, seeking as I did so to learn,
