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 They were a jolly, good-natured set of fellows, who evidently thought they had done a big thing; and as I scanned them more closely, the only distinction in appearance between them and our soldiers which I could discover, was that the Greek cross on their caps was embroidered in yellow worsted. I was offered no further indignity or insult, and was allowed to ride my own horse for the present, though I was quietly informed on the way that Mosby had threatened to hang the first officer he should catch, in retaliation for his men who had been hung as guerrillas at Front Royal, and that I would undoubtedly be the unfortunate individual. With this consoling information I was ushered into the presence of the great modern highwayman, John S. Mosby, then lieutenant-colonel C. S. A. He stood a little apart from his men, by the side of a splendid gray horse, with his right hand grasping the bridle-rein, the forearm resting on the pommel of his saddle, his left arm akimbo, and his right foot thrown across the left ankle and resting on its toe. He is a slight, medium-sized man, sharp of feature, quick of sight, lithe of limb, with a bronzed face of the color and tension of whip-cord; his hair a yellow-brown, with full but light beard, and mustache of the same. A straight Grecian nose, firm-set expressive mouth, large ears, deep-grey eyes, high forehead, large well-shaped head, and his whole expression denoting hard services, energy, and love of whiskey. He wore top-boots, and a civilian's overcoat-black, lined with red-and beneath it the complete gray uniform of a Confederate lieutenant-colonel, with its two
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