Then came "Uncle Tom" looking men, driving wagons loaded with newly-riven rails, breathing the virile pungency of freshly-cut oak.
Occasionally an old white man or woman rode by, greeting her with a courteous "Howdy ?" The serenity everywhere intoxicated her with a half-belief that the terrible Rebel army at Murfreesboro was only a nightmare of fear-oppressed brains, and in her relief she was ready to burst out in echo of a triumphant hymn ringing from a weaving-shed at her right.
Her impulse was checked by seeing approach a figure harshly dissonant to Arcadian surroundings.
It was a young man riding a powerful roan horse at an easy gallop, and carrying in his hand, ready for instant use, a 16-shooting Henry rifle.
He was evidently a scout, but, as was usual with that class, his uniform was so equally made up of blue and gray that it was impossible to tell to which side he belonged.

He reined up as he saw Rachel, and looked at her for a moment in a way that chilled her.

They were now on a lonely bit of road, out of sight and hearing of any person or house.

All a woman's fears rose up in her heart, but she shut her lips firmly, and rode directly toward the scout.

Another thought seemed to enter his mind, he touched his horse up with his heel, and rode by her, saying courteously: "Good morning, Miss," but eyeing her intently as they passed.