Miles away to her left she saw the trains rushing into Nashville, unrolling as they came along black and white ribbons against the sky.
"They're coming from the North," she said, with an involuntary sigh; "they're coming from home." She touched her mare's flank with the whip and sped on.
She soon reached the outer line of guards, by whom she was halted, with a demand for her pass.
She produced the one furnished her, which was signed by Gen.

Rosencrans.
While the Sergeant was inspecting it it occured to her that now was the time to begin the role of a young woman with rebellious proclivities.
"Is this the last guard-line I will have to pass ?" she asked.
"Yes'm," answered the Sergeant.
"You're quite sure ?" "Yes'm." "Then I won't have any further use for this--thing ?" indicating the pass, which she received back with fine loathing, as if it were something infectious.
"No'm." "Quite sure ?" "Yes'm, quite sure." She rode over to the fire around which part of the guard were sitting, held the pass over it by the extremest tips of her dainty thumb and forefinger, and then dropped it upon the coals, as if it were a rag from a small-pox hospital.

Glancing at her finger-tips an instant, as if they had been permanently contaminated by the scrawl of the Yankee General, she touched her nag, and was off like an arrow without so much as good day to the guards.
"She-cesh--clean to her blessed little toe-nails," said the Sergeant, gazing after her meditatively, as he fished around in his pouch for a handful of Kinnikinnick, to replenish his pipe, "and she's purtier'n a picture, too." "Them's the kind that's always the wust Rebels," said the oracle of the squad, from his seat by the fire.

"I'll bet she's just loaded down with information or ouinine.

Mebbe both." She was now fairly in the enemy's country, and her heart beat faster in momentary expectation of encountering some form of the perils abounding there.