Before Mohun's penetrating glance, his own sank. He took
his seat in a broken-backed chair; drew forth a huge red bandanna
handkerchief; wiped his forehead; and said quietly:--
"I expected to meet a friend here to-night, gentlemen, instead of--"
"Enemies?" interrupted Mohun. "We are such, it is true, my dear sir,
but you are quite safe. Your friend Nighthawk is called away; he is
even ignorant of our presence here."
"But meeting him would have been different, gentlemen. I had his safe
conduct!"
"You shall have it from me."
"May I ask from whom?" said Swartz.
"From General Mohun, of the Confederate army."
Swartz smiled this time; then making a grotesque bow, he replied:--
"I knew you very well, general--that is why I am so much at my ease. I
am pleased to hear that you are promoted. When I last saw you, you were
only a colonel, but I was certain that you would soon be promoted or
killed."
There was a queer accent of politeness in the voice of the speaker. He
did not seem to have uttered these words in order to flatter his
listener, but to express his real sentiment. He was evidently a
character.
"Good!" said Mohun, with his habitual accent of satire. "These little
compliments are charming. But I am in haste to-night--let us come to
business, my dear sir.
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