The boy was torn by great and conflicting emotions. He would carry
out with his life the task that Thomas had assigned to him, and yet he
wished to stop near Pendleton, if only for an hour.
Yes an hour would do! And it could not interfere with his duty!
But Pendleton was a Southern stronghold. Everybody there knew him,
and they all knew, too, that he was in the service of the North.
How could he pass by without being seen and what might happen then?
The terrible conflict went on in his mind, and it was stilled only when
he decided to leave it to time and chance.
He rode that day almost without interruption, securing an ample dinner,
where no one chose to ask questions, accepting him at his own statement
of himself and probably believing it. He heard that a small Southern
force was to the southward, probably marching toward Bowling Green,
where a great Confederate army under Albert Sidney Johnston was said
to be concentrated. But the news gave him no alarm. His own road was
still leading west slightly by north.
When night came he was in the pleasant and fertile hill country, dotted
with double brick houses, and others of wood, all with wide porticos,
supported by white pillars. It looked smiling and prosperous even in
winter. The war had done no ravages here, and he saw men at work about
the great barns.
He slept in the house of a big farmer, who liked the frank voice and
eyes of the lad, and who cared nothing for any errand upon which he
might be riding.
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