It was perfectly regular and of undoubted authenticity.

He had heard of passes of this kind,--the terror of the army,--issued in Washington under some strange controlling influence and against military protest; but he did not let his subordinate see the uneasiness with which it filled him.
"Show her in," he said quietly.
But she had already entered, brushing scornfully past the officer, and drawing her skirt aside, as if contaminated: a very pretty Southern girl, scornful and red-lipped, clad in a gray riding-habit, and still carrying her riding-whip clenched ominously in her slim, gauntleted hand! "You have my permit in your hand," she said brusquely, hardly raising her eyes to Brant.

"I suppose it's all straight enough,--and even if it isn't, I don't reckon to be kept waiting with those hirelings." "Your 'permit' is 'straight' enough, Miss Faulkner," said Brant, slowly reading her name from the document before him.

"But, as it does not seem to include permission to insult my officers, you will perhaps allow them first to retire." He made a sign to the officer, who passed out of the door.
As it closed, he went on, in a gentle but coldly unimpassioned voice,-- "I perceive you are a Southern lady, and therefore I need not remind you that it is not considered good form to treat even the slaves of those one does not like uncivilly, and I must, therefore, ask you to keep your active animosity for myself." The young girl lifted her eyes.

She had evidently not expected to meet a man so young, so handsome, so refined, and so coldly invincible in manner.