There could be no doubt of the genuineness of the paper. The worthy Mr.
Swartz loomed up before me in the novel and unexpected light of a
_Confederate_ emissary!
I read the paper aloud to Nighthawk, and pointed to the official
signature and seal.
Nighthawk uttered a groan, and his chin sank upon his breast.
That spectacle seemed to excite the sympathy of his friend.
"There, my dear Nighthawk," said Mr. Swartz, in a feeling tone, "don't
take the blow too much to heart. I have beaten you, this game, and your
hands are tied at present. But I swear that I will meet you, and
produce that paper."
"When?" murmured Nighthawk.
"In three days from this time."
"Where?"
"At the house of our friend Alibi, near Monk's Neck, in Dinwiddie."
"On your word?"
"On the word of Swartz!"
"That is enough, my dear Swartz; I will be at Alibi's, when we will
come to terms. And now, pardon this visit, which has put you to so much
inconvenience. I was merely jesting, my dear friend, when I spoke of
arresting you. Arrest you! Nothing could induce me to think of so
unfriendly a proceeding. And now, good night, my dear friend. I will
return with you, colonel."
With which words Nighthawk saluted his "friend," and we returned toward
the upper part of the city.
Such were the scenes of a night in the summer of 1864.
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