She screamed in terror, fighting to break his hold, while the trap above them opened, and the head and shoulders of the Southerner appeared, his pistol held in his outstretched hand.
"Drop it, you hound!" he ordered fiercely.

"Drop it!" The Northerner released his captive, but stood unmoved as he looked into the pistol's muzzle and the blazing eyes of the cornered scout.
"I'm sorry," he said, in quiet dignity.

"I'm very sorry; but I had to bring you out." He paused, then spoke again: "And you needn't bother about your gun.

If you'd had any ammunition, our fire would have been returned, back yonder in the woods.

The game's up, Cary.