It was bitterly cold that December night, 1864, and the wind sighed dismally through the Maryland woods. The moon, temporarily obscured by heavy clouds, gave some light now and then, which but served to make the succeeding darkness more intense. Suddenly the silence was broken by the clatter of galloping hoofs, and two riders, leaving the highway, rode into the woods on their left. The shorter of the two men muttered an oath as his horse stumbled over the uneven ground. Take care, Symonds, said his companion quickly, and he ducked his head to avoid the bare branches of a huge tree. How near are we now to Poolesville? About seven miles by the road, was the gruff reply; but this short cut will soon bring us there. And none too soon, he added, glancing at their weary horses. Still, Captain Lloyd, we have done a good night’s work. I think Colonel Baker will be satisfied, agreed Lloyd. And friend Schmidt, now that he sees the game is up, will probably turn state’s evidence.
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