Her black eyes were excited, but unintelligent; her manner dogged, but with the obstinacy of half-conscious stupidity.
Brant felt not only disappointed, but had a singular impression that she was not the same woman that he had first seen.

Yet there was the tall, graceful figure, the dark profile, and the turbaned head that he had once followed down the passage by his room.
Her story was as stupidly simple.

She had known "Missy" from a chile! She had just traipsed over to see her that afternoon; they were walking together when the sojers stopped her.

She had never been stopped before, even by "the patter rollers."* Her old massa (Manly) had gib leaf to go see Miss Tilly, and hadn't said nuffin about no "orders." * i.e., patrols,--a civic home-guard in the South that kept surveillance of slaves.
More annoyed than he cared to confess, Brant briefly dismissed her with a warning.

As he cantered down the slope the view of the distant pickets recalled the window in the wing, and he turned in his saddle to look at it.