Penn's astonishment was profound. Keen as had been his curiosity as to what was beyond the shadowy walls the fire dimly revealed, he had formed no conception of the extent and sublimity of the various galleries, chambers, glittering vaults, and falling waters, embosomed there in the mountain.

"Dis yer all my own house!" Cudjo kept repeating, with fantastic grimaces of satisfaction. "Me found him all my own self. Nobody war eber hyar afore me; Pomp am de next; and you's de on'y white man eber seen dis yer cave."

It grew light as they proceeded, Cudjo's torch paled, and the waters of a subterranean stream they were following caught gleams of the struggling day from another opening beyond. Climbing over fragments of huge tumbled rocks, and up an earthy bank, Penn found himself in the bottom of an immense chasm. It had apparently been formed by the sinking down of the roof of the cave, with a tremendous superincumbent weight of forest trees. There, on an island, so to speak, in the midst of the subterranean darkness, they were growing still, their lofty tops barely reaching the level of the mountain above.

"It was out of this sink I saw the wild beast climbing, that turned out to be Cudjo," said Pomp.

"Dat ar am de tree," said Cudjo. "No oder way but dat ar to get up out ob dis yer hole."

"What a terrible place!" said Penn, little thinking at the time how much more terrible it was soon to become as a scene of deadly human conflict.

Beyond the chasm the stream flowed on into still more remote parts of the cave. But Penn had seen enough for one day, and the torch-bearing Cudjo guided them back to the spot from which they had started.

Penn had now completely won the confidence of the blacks, who no longer placed any restrictions on his movements. It had been their original purpose never to suffer him to leave the cave without being blindfolded. But now, having shown him one opening, they freely permitted him to pass out by the other. This was that by which he had been brought in, and which was used by the blacks themselves on all ordinary occasions. It was a mere fissure in the mountain, hidden from external view by thickets. Above rose steep ledges of rocks, thickly covered with earth and bushes. Below yawned an immense ravine, far down in the cool, dark depths of which a little streamlet flowed.

Pomp piloted his guest through the thickets, and along a narrow shelf, from which the ascent to the barren ledges was easy. Upon these they sat down. It was a beautiful April day. This was Penn's first visit to the upper world since he was brought to the cave. The scene filled him with rapture; the loveliness of earth and sky intoxicated him. Here he was among the rugged ranges of the Cumberland Mountains, in the heart of Tennessee. On either hand they rolled away in tremendous billows of forest-crowned rocks. The ravines in their sides opened into little valleys, and these spread out into a broad and magnificent intervale, checkered with farms, streaked with roads, and dotted with dwellings. Spring seemed to have come in a night. It was chill March weather when Penn left the world, which was now warm with sweet south winds, and green with April verdure.

"How beautiful, how beautiful!" said he, receiving, with the susceptibility of a convalescent, the exquisite impression made upon the senses by every sight and sound and odor. "O! and to think that all this divine loveliness is marred by the passions of men! Up here, what glory, what peace! Down yonder, what hatred, violence, and sin! No wonder, Pomp, you love the mountains so!"

"It is doubtful if they leave the mountains in peace much longer," said Pomp. He had heard the night before that fighting had begun at Charleston, and the news had stirred his soul. "The country is all alive with excitement, and the waves of its fury will reach us here before long. Take this glass, sir: you can see soldiers marching through the streets."

"They are marching past my school-house!" said Penn. He became very thoughtful. He knew that they were soldiers recruited in the cause of rebellion, although Tennessee had not yet seceded,—although the people had voted in February against secession: a dishonest governor, and a dishonest legislature, aided by reckless demagogues everywhere, being resolved upon precipitating the state into revolution, by fraud and force,—if not with the consent of the people, then without it. "I had hoped the storm would soon blow over, and that it would be safe for me to go peaceably about my business."

"The storm," said Pomp, his soul dilating, his features kindling with a wild joy, "is hardly begun yet! The great problem of this age, in this country, is going to be solved in blood! This continent is going to shake with such a convulsion as was never before. It is going to shake till the last chain of the slave is shaken off, and the sin is punished, and God says, 'It is enough!'"

He spoke with such thrilling earnestness that Penn regarded him in astonishment.

"What makes you think so, Pomp?"

"That I can't tell. The feeling rises up here,"—the negro laid his hand upon his massive chest,—"and that is all I know. It is strong as my life—it fills and burns me like fire! The day of deliverance for my race is at hand. That is the meaning of those soldiers down there, arming for they know not what."



XVII.

PENN'S FOOT KNOCKS DOWN A MUSKET.

Weeks passed. But now every day brought to Penn increasing anxiety of mind with regard to his situation. His abhorrence of war was as strong as ever; and his great principle of non-resistance had scarcely been shaken. But how was he to avoid participating in scenes of violence if he remained in Tennessee? And how was his escape from the state to be effected?

"You are welcome to a home with us as long as you will stay," said Pomp. "I shall miss you—even Cudjo will hate to see you go."

Penn thanked him, fully appreciating their kindness; but his heart was yearning for other things.

Day after day he lingered still, however. The difficulties in the way of escape thickened, instead of diminishing. In February, as I have said, the people had voted against secession. Not content with this, the governor called an extra session of the legislature, which proceeded to carry the state out of the Union by fraud. On the sixth of May an ordinance of separation was passed, to be submitted to the vote of the people on the eighth of June. But without waiting for the will of the people to be made manifest, the authors of this treason went on to act precisely as if the state had seceded. A league was formed with the confederate states, the control of all the troops raised in Tennessee was given to Davis, and troops from the cotton states were rushed in to make good the work thus begun. The June election, which took place under this reign of terror, resulted as was to have been expected. Rebel soldiers guarded the polls. Few dared to vote openly the Union ticket; while those who deposited a close ticket were "spotted." Thus timid men were frightened from the ballot-box; while soldiers from the cotton states voted in their places. Then, as it was charged, there were the grossest frauds in counting the votes. And so Tennessee "seceded."

The state authorities had also achieved a politic stroke by disarming the people. Every owner of a gun was compelled to deliver it up, or pay a heavy fine. The arms thus secured went to equip the troops raised for the Confederacy; while the Union cause was left crippled and defenceless. Many firelocks were of course kept concealed: some were taken to pieces, and the pieces scattered,—the barrel here, the stock there, and the lock in still another place,—to come together again only at the will of the owner: but, as a general thing, the loyalists could not be said to have arms. It was in those times that the precaution of Stackridge and his fellow-patriots was justified. The secrecy with which they had conducted their night-meetings and drills, though seemingly unnecessary at first, saved them from much inconvenience when the full tide of persecution set in. They were suspected indeed, and it was believed they had arms; but they still met in safety, and the place where their arms were deposited remained undiscovered.

All this time, Penn had no money with which to defray the expenses of travel. When his school was broken up, several hundred dollars were due him for his services. This sum the trustees of the Academy placed to his credit in the Curryville Bank; but, in consequence of a recent enactment, designed to rob and annoy loyal men, he could not draw the money without appearing personally, and first taking the oath of allegiance to the confederate government. This, of course, was out of the question.

Meanwhile he learned to rough it on the mountain with the fugitives. Pomp taught him the use of the rifle, and he was soon able to shoot, dress, and cook his own dinner. He grew robust with the exercise and exposure. But every day his longing eyes turned towards the valley where the friends were whom he loved, and whom he resolved at all hazards to visit again, if for the last time.

At length, one morning at breakfast, he informed Pomp and Cudjo of his intention to leave them,—to return secretly to the village, place himself under the protection of certain Unionists he knew, and attempt, with their assistance, to make his way out of the state.

"Why go down there at all?" said Pomp. "If you are determined to leave us, let me be your guide. I will take you over the mountains into Kentucky, where you will be safe. It will be a long, hard journey; but you are strong now; we will take it leisurely, killing our game by the way."

"You are very kind—and——"

Penn blushed and stammered. The truth was, he was willing to risk his life to see Virginia once more; and the thought of quitting the state without bidding her good by was intolerable to him.

"And what?" said Pomp, smiling intelligently.

"And I may possibly be glad to accept your proposal. But I am determined to try the other way first."

Both Pomp and Cudjo endeavored to dissuade him from the undertaking, but in vain. That evening he took his departure. The blacks accompanied him to the foot of the mountain. Notwithstanding the friendship and gratitude he had all along felt towards them, he had not foreseen how painful would be the separation from them.

"I never quitted friends more reluctantly!" he said, choked with his emotion. "Never, never shall I forget you—never shall I forget those rambles on the mountains, those days and nights in the cave! Let me hope we shall meet again, when I can make you some return for your kindness."

"We may meet again, and sooner than you suppose," said Pomp. "If you find escape too difficult, be sure and come back to us. Ah, I seem to foresee that you will come back!"

With this prediction ringing in his ears, and filling him with vague forebodings, Penn went his way; while the negroes, having shaken hands with him in sorrowful silence, returned to their savage mountain home, which had never looked so lonely to them as now, since their beloved and gentle guest had departed.

The night was not dark, and Penn, having been guided to a bridle-path that led to the town, experienced no difficulty in finding his way on alone. He approached the minister's house from the fields. Although late in the evening, the windows were still lighted. He was surprised to see men walking to and fro by the house, and to hear their footsteps on the piazza floor. He drew near enough to discern that they carried muskets. Then the truth flashed upon him: they were soldiers guarding the house.

Whether they were there to protect the venerable Unionist from mob-violence, or to prevent his escape, Penn could only conjecture. In either case it would have been extremely indiscreet for him to enter the house. Bitter disappointment filled him, mingled with apprehensions for the safety of his friends, and remorse at the thought that he himself had, although unintentionally, been instrumental in drawing down upon them the vengeance of the secessionists.

Penn next thought of Stackridge. It was indeed upon that sturdy patriot that he relied chiefly for aid in leaving the state. He took a last, lingering look at the minister's house,—the windows whose cheerful light had so often greeted him on his way thither, in those delightful winter evenings which were gone, never to return,—the soldiers on the piazza, symbolizing the reign of terror that had commenced,—and with a deep inward prayer that God would shield with his all-powerful hand the beleaguered family, he once more crossed the fields.

By a circuitous route he came in sight of Stackridge's house. There were lights there also, although it must have been now near midnight. And as Penn discerned them, he became aware of loud voices engaged in angry altercation around the farmer's door. It was no time for him to approach. He stole away as noiselessly as he had come. In the still, quiet night he paused, asking himself what he should do.

The Academy was not far off. He remembered that he had left there, among other things, a pocket Bible, a gift from his sister, which he wished to preserve. Perhaps it was there still; perhaps he could get in and recover it. At all events, he had plenty of leisure on his hands, and could afford to make the trial.

He heard the mounted patrol pass by, and waited for the sound of hoofs to die in the distance. Then cautiously he drew near the gloomy and silent school-house. Not doubting but the door was locked,—for he still had the key with him which he had turned for the last time when he walked out in defiance of the lynchers,—he resolved not to unlock it, but to keep in the rear of the building, and enter, if possible, by a window.

The window was unfastened, as it had ever remained since he had opened it, on that memorable occasion, to communicate with Carl. Softly he raised the sash, and softly he crept in. His foot, however, struck an object on the desk, and swept it down. It fell with a loud, rattling sound upon the floor.

It was a musket; the owner of which bounded up on the instant from a bench where he was lying, and seized Penn by the leg. The school-house had been turned into a barrack-room for recruits, and the late master found that he had descended upon a squad of confederate soldiers.

Lights were struck, and the sleepy sentinels, rubbing their eyes open, recognized, struggling in the arms of their companion, the unfortunate young Quaker.

"I knowed 'twas him! I knowed 'twas him!" cried his overjoyed captor, who proved to be no other than Silas Ropes's worthy friend Gad. "I heern him gittin' inter the winder, but I kept dark till he knocked my gun down; then I grabbed him! He's a traitor, and this time will meet a traitor's doom!"

"My friends," said Penn, recovering from the agitation of his first surprise and struggle, "I am in your power. It is perhaps the best thing that could happen to me; for I have committed no crime, and I cannot doubt but that I shall receive justice all the sooner for this accident. You need not take the trouble to bind me; I shall not attempt to escape."

His captors, however, among whom he recognized with some uneasiness more than one of those who had been engaged in lynching him, persisted in binding him upon a bench, in no very comfortable position, and then set a guard over him for the remainder of the night.



XVIII.

CONDEMNED TO DEATH.

Early the next morning Virginia Villars overheard the soldiers conversing on the piazza. The mention of a certain name arrested her attention. She listened: what they said terrified her. Penn Hapgood had been apprehended during the night, and his trial by drum-head court-martial was at that moment proceeding.

"Mr. Pepperill!" she called, in a scarcely audible whisper; and, looking around, Daniel saw her alarmed face at the window.

Daniel was one of the soldiers who had been detailed to guard the house. Strongly against his will, he had been compelled to enlist, in order to avoid the persecutions of his secession neighbors. Such was already becoming the fate of many whose hearts were not in the cause, whose sympathies were all with the government against which they were forced to rebel.

"What, marm?" said Pepperill, meekly.

"Is it true what that man is saying?"

"About the schoolmaster? I—I'm afeard it ar true! They've cotched him, marm, and there's men that's swore the death of him, marm."

Virginia flew to inform her father. The old man rose up instantly, forgetting his blindness, forgetting his own feebleness, and the danger into which he would have rushed, to go and plead Penn's cause.

Fortunately, perhaps, for him, the guard crossed their muskets before him, refusing to let him pass. Their orders were, not only to defend the house, but also to prevent his leaving it.

"Then I will go alone!" said Carl, who was to have been his guide. And scarcely waiting to receive instructions from Virginia and her father, he ran out, slipping between the soldiers, who had no orders to detain any person but the minister, and ran to the Academy.

The mockery of a trial was over. The prisoner had been condemned. The penalty pronounced against him was death. Already the noose was dangling from a tree, and some soldiers were bringing from the school-house a table to serve as a scaffold. Silas Ropes, who had a feather stuck in his cap, and wore an old rusty scabbard at his side, and flourished a sword, enjoying the title of "lieutenant," obtained for him through Bythewood's influence; Lysander Sprowl, who had been honored with a captaincy from the same source, and who, though a forger, and late a fugitive from justice, now boldly defied the power of the civil authorities to arrest him, trusting to that atrocious policy of the confederate government which virtually proclaimed to the robber and murderer, "Become, now, a traitor to your country, and all other crimes shall be forgiven you;"—these, and other persons of like character, appeared chiefly active in Penn's case. That they had no right whatever to constitute themselves a court-martial, and bring him to trial, they knew perfectly well. They had not waited even for a shadow of authority from their commanding officer. What they were about to do was nothing more nor less than murder.

Penn, with his hands tied behind him, and surrounded by a violent rabble, some armed, and others unarmed, was already mounted upon the table, when Carl arrived, and attempted to force his way through the crowd.

"Feller-citizens and soldiers!" cried Lieutenant Ropes, standing on a chair beside the scaffold, "this here man has jest been proved to be a traitor and a spy, and he is about to expatiate his guilt on the gallus."

Two men then mounted the table, passed the noose over Penn's neck, drew it close, and leaped down again.

"Now," said Ropes, "if you've got any confession to make 'fore the table is jerked out from under ye, you can ease your mind. Only le' me suggest, if you don't mean to confess, you'd better hold yer tongue."

Penn, pale, but perfectly self-possessed, expecting no mercy, no reprieve, made answer in a clear, strong voice,—

"I can't confess, for I am not guilty. I die an innocent man. I appeal to Heaven, before whose bar we must all appear, for the justice you deny me."

In his shirt sleeves, his head uncovered, his feet bare, his naked throat enclosed by the murderous cord, his hands bound behind him, he stood awaiting his fate. Carl in the mean time struggled in vain to break through the ring of soldiers that surrounded the extemporized scaffold,—screamed in vain to obtain a hearing.

"Let him go, and you may hang me in his place!"

The soldiers answered with a brutal laugh,—as if there would be any satisfaction in hanging him! But the offer of self-sacrifice on the part of the devoted Carl touched one heart, at least. Penn, who had maintained a firm demeanor up to this time, was almost unmanned by it.

"God bless you, dear Carl! Remember that I loved you. Be always honest and upright; then, if you die the victim of wrong, it will be your oppressors, not you, who will be most unhappy. Good by, dear Carl. Bear my farewell to those we love. Don't stay and see me die, I entreat you!"

Yet Carl staid, sobbing with grief and rage.

"Why don't you hurry up this business?" cried Lysander Sprowl, angrily, coming out of the school-house. "Somebody tie a handkerchief over his eyes, and get through some time to-day."

"All right, cap'm," said Ropes. "Make ready now, boys, and take away this table in a hurry, when I give the word."

"Hold on, there! What's going on?" cried an unexpected voice, and a recruiting officer from the village made his appearance, riding up on a white horse.

The summary proceedings were stayed, and the case explained. The man listened with an air of grim official importance, his coarse red countenance betraying not a gleam of sympathy with the prisoner. Yet being the superior in rank to any officer present (Silas called him "kunnel"), besides being the only one of them all who had been regularly commissioned by the confederate government, this man held Penn's fate in his hands.

"Hanging's too good for such scoundrels!" he said, frowning at the prisoner. "As for this particular case, there's only one thing to be said: his life shall be spared on only one condition."

Carl's heart almost stood still, in his eagerness to listen. Even Penn felt a faint—a very faint—pulse of hope in his breast. The "kunnel" went on.

"Let him take his choice—either to hang, or enlist. What do you say, youngster? Which do you prefer—the death of a traitor, or the glorious career of a soldier in the confederate army?"

"It is impossible for me, sir," said Penn, in a voice of deep feeling and unalterable conviction—"it is impossible for me to bear arms against my country!"

"But the Confederate States shall be your country, and a country to be proud of!" said the man.

"I am a citizen of the United States; to the United States I owe allegiance," said Penn. "So far from being a traitor, I am willing to die rather than appear one."

"Then you won't enlist?"

"No, sir."

"Not even to save your life?"

"Not even to save my life!"

"Then," growled the man, turning away, "if you will be such a fool, I've nothing more to say."

So it only remained for Penn to submit quietly to his fate. The executioners laid hold of the table, and waited for the order to remove it.

But just then Carl, breaking through the crowd, threw himself before the officer's horse.

"O, Colonel Derring! hear me—von vord!"

"Von vord!" repeated the officer, with a coarse laugh, mocking him. "What's that, you Dutchman?"

"You vill let him go, and I shall wolunteer in his place!" said Carl.

"You!" The officer regarded him critically. Carl, though so young, was very sturdy. "You offer yourself as a substitute, eh, if I will spare his life?"

"Carl!" cried Penn, "I forbid you! You shall not commit that sin for me! Better a thousand times that I should die than that you should be a rebel in arms against your country."

"I have no country," answered Carl, ingeniously excusing himself. "I am vot this man says, a Tuchman. I vill enlisht mit him, and he vill shpare your life."

"Boy, it's a bargain," said Colonel Derring, whose passion for obtaining recruits overruled every other consideration. "Cut that fellow's cords, lieutenant, and let him go. Come along with me, Dutchy."

Ropes obeyed, and Penn, bewildered, almost stunned, by the sudden change in his destiny, saw himself released, and beheld, as in a dream, poor Carl marching off as his substitute to the recruiting station.

"Now let me give you one word of advice," said Captain Sprowl in his ear. "Don't let another night find you within twenty miles of that halter there, if you wouldn't have your neck in it again."

"Will you give me a safe conduct?" said Penn, who thought the advice excellent, and would have been only too glad to act upon it.

"I've no authority," said Sprowl. "You must take care of yourself."

Penn looked around upon the ferocious, disappointed faces watching him, and felt that he might about as well have been despatched in the first place, as to be let loose in the midst of such a pack of wolves thirsting for his blood. He did not despair, however, but, putting on his clothes, determined to make one final and desperate effort to escape.



XIX.

THE ESCAPE.

Walking off quickly across the field towards Mrs. Sprowl's house, he turned suddenly aside from the path and plunged into the woods.

He soon perceived that he was followed. A man—only one—came through the undergrowth. Penn stopped. "God forgive me!" he said within himself; "but this is more than human nature can bear!" He had been, as it were, smitten on one cheek and on the other also: it was time to smite back. He picked up a club: his nerves became like steel as he grasped it: his eyes flashed fire.

The man advanced; he was unarmed. Suddenly Penn dropped his club, and uttered a cry of joy. It was his friend Stackridge.

"What! the Quaker will fight?" said the farmer, with a grim smile.

"That shows," said Penn, bursting into tears as he wrung the farmer's hand, "that I have been driven nearly insane!"

"It shows that some of the insanity has been driven out of you!" replied Stackridge, beginning to have hopes of him. "If you had taken my pistol and used it freely in the first place, or at least shown a good will to use it, you'd have proved yourself a good deal more of a man in my estimation, and been quite as well off."

"Perhaps," murmured Penn, convinced that this passive submission to martyrdom was but a sorry part to play.

"But now to business," said Stackridge. "You must get away as quickly and secretly as possible, unless you mean to stay and fight it out. I am here to help you. I have a horse in the woods here, at your disposal. I thought there might be such a thing as your slipping through their hands, and so I took this precaution. I will show you a bridle-road that will take you to the house of a friend of mine, who is a hearty Unionist. You can leave my horse with him. He will help you on to the house of some friend of his, who will do the same, and so you will manage to get out of the state. I advise you to travel by night, as a general thing; but just now it seems necessary that you should see a little hard riding by daylight. You'll find some luncheon in the saddlebags. When you get into some pretty thick woods, leave the road, and find a good place to tie up till night; then go on cautiously to my friend's house. I'll give you full directions, while we're finding the horse."

They made haste to the spot where the animal was tied.

"He has been well fed," said the farmer. "You will water him at the first brook you cross, and let him browse when you stop. Now just trade that coat for one that will make you look a little less like a Quaker schoolmaster."

He had brought one of his own coats, which he made Penn put on, and then exchanged hats with him. Penn was admirably disguised. Brief, then, were the thanks he uttered from his overflowing heart, short the leave-takings. He was mounted. Stackridge led the horse through the bushes to the bridle-path.

"Now, don't let the grass grow under your feet till you are at least five miles away. If you meet anybody, get along without words if you can; if you can't, let words come to blows as quick as you please, and then put faith in Dobbin's heels."

Again, for the last time, he made Penn the offer of a pistol. There was no leisure for idle arguments on the subject. The weapon was accepted. The two wrung each other's hands in silence: there were tears in the eyes of both. Then Stackridge gave Dobbin a resounding slap, and the horse bounded away, bearing his rider swiftly out of sight in the woods.

All this had passed so rapidly that Penn had scarcely time to think of any thing but the necessity of immediate flight. But during that solitary ride through the forest he had ample leisure for reflection. He thought of the mountain cave, whose gloomy but quiet shelter, whose dark but nevertheless humane and hospitable inmates he seemed to have quitted weeks ago, so crowded with experiences had been the few hours since last he shook Pomp and Cudjo by the hand. He thought of Virginia and her father, to visit whom for perhaps the last time he had incurred the risk of descending into the valley; whom now he felt, with a strangely swelling heart, that he might never see again. And he thought with grief, pity, and remorse of Carl, a rebel now for his sake.

These things, and many more, agitated him as he spurred the farmer's horse along the narrow, shaded, lonesome path. He met an old man on horseback, with a bright-faced girl riding behind him on the crupper, who bade him a pleasant good morning, and pursued their way. Next came some boys driving mules laden with sacks of corn. At last Penn saw two men in butternut suits with muskets on their shoulders. He knew by their looks that they were secessionists hastening to join their friends in town. They regarded him suspiciously as he came galloping up. Penn perceived that some off-hand word was necessary in passing them.

"Hurry on with those guns!" he cried; "they are wanted!"

And he dashed away, as if his sole business was to hurry up guns for the confederate cause.

He met with no other adventure that day. He followed Stackridge's directions implicitly, and at evening, leaving his horse tied in the woods, approached on foot the house to which he had been sent.

He was cordially received by the same old man whom he had seen riding to town in the morning with a bright-faced girl clinging behind him. At a hint from Stackridge the man had hastily ridden home again, passing Penn at noon while he lay hidden in the woods; and here he was, honest, friendly, vigilant, to receive and protect his guest.

"You did well," he said, "to turn off up the mountain; for I am not the only man that passed you there. You have been pursued. Three persons have gone on after you. I met them as I was going into town; they inquired of me if I had seen you, and when I got home I found they had passed here in search of you. They have not yet gone back."

This was unpleasant news. Yet Penn was soon convinced that he had been extremely fortunate in thus throwing his pursuers off his track. It was far better that they should have gone on before him, than that they should be following close upon his heels.

He staid with the farmer all night, and departed with him early the next morning to pursue his journey. It was not safe for him to keep the road, for he might at any moment meet his pursuers returning; accordingly, the old man showed him a circuitous route along the base of the mountains, which could be travelled only on foot, and by daylight.

"Here I leave you," said his kind old guide, when they had reached the banks of a mountain stream. "Follow this run, and it will take you around to the road, about a mile this side of my brother's house. There's a bridge near which you can wait, when you get to it. If your pursuers go back past my house, then I will harness up and drive on to the bridge, and water my horse there. You will see me, and get in to ride, and I will take you to my brother's, and make some arrangement for helping you on still farther to night."

So they parted; the lonely fugitive feeling that the kindness of a few such men, scattered like salt through the state, was enough to redeem it from the fate of Sodom, which otherwise, by its barbarism and injustice, it would have seemed to deserve.

Following the stream in its windings through a wilderness of thickets and rocks, he reached the bridge about the middle of the afternoon. His progress had been leisurely. The day was warm, bright, and tranquil. The stream poured over ledges, or gushed among mossy stones, or tumbled down jagged rocks in flashing cascades. Its music filled him with memories of home, with love that swelled his heart to tears, with longings for peace and rest. Its coolness and beauty made a little Sabbath in his soul, a pause of holy calm, in the midst of the fear and tumult that lay before and behind him.

During that long, solitary ramble he had pondered much the great question which had of late agitated his mind—the question which, in peaceful days, he had thought settled with his own conscience forever. But days of stern experience play sad havoc with theories not founded in experience. In all the ordinary emergencies of life Penn had found the doctrine of non-resistance to evil, of overcoming evil with good, beautiful and sublime. But had he not the morning before given way to a natural impulse, when he seized a club, firmly resolved to oppose force with force? The recollection of that incident had led him into a singular train of reasoning.

"I know," he said, "that it is still the highest doctrine. But am I equal to it? Can I, under all circumstances, live up to it? I have seen something of the power and recklessness of the faction that would destroy my country. Would I wish to see my country submit? Never! Such submission would be the most unchristian thing it could do. It would be the abandonment of the cause of liberty; it would be to deliver up the whole land to the blighting despotism of slavery; it would postpone the millennium I hope for thousands of years. I see no other way than that the nation must resist; and what I would have the nation do I should be prepared, if called upon, to do myself. If this government were a Christian government I would have it use only Christian weapons, and no doubt those would be effectual for its preservation. But there never was a Christian government yet, and probably there will not be for an age or two. Governments are all founded on human policy, selfishness, and force. Or if I was entirely a Christian, then I would have no temptation, and no right, to use any but spiritual weapons. But until I attain to these, may I not use such weapons as I have?"

These thoughts revolved slowly and somewhat confusedly in the young man's mind, when an incident occurred to bring form, sharply and suddenly, out of that chaos.

He had reached the bridge. He looked up and down the road, and saw no human being. It was hardly time to expect the farmer yet; so he climbed down upon some dry stones in the bed of the stream, where he could watch for his coming, and be at the same time hidden from view and sheltered from the sun.

He had not been long in that situation when he heard the sounds of hoofs. It was not his white-haired farmer whom he saw approaching, but two men on horseback. They were coming from the same direction in which he was looking for the old man. As they drew near, he discovered that one was a negro. The face of the other he recognized shortly afterwards. It was that of Mr. Augustus Bythewood, who was evidently taking advantage of the fine weather to make a little journey, accompanied by a black servant.

Penn's heart contracted within him as he thought of his friend Pomp, and of the wrongs he had suffered at this man's hands. He thought of his own safety too, and crept under the bridge. He had time, however, before he disappeared, to catch a glimpse of three other horsemen coming from the north. His heart beat fast, for he knew in an instant that these were his pursuers returning.

He had already prepared for himself a good hiding-place, in a cavity between the two logs that supported the bridge. Upon the butment, close under the trembling planks, he lay, when Bythewood and his man rode over. The dust rattled upon him through the cracks, and sifted down into the stream. The thundering and shaking of the planks ceased, but he listened in vain to hear the hoofs of the two horses clattering off in the distance. To his alarm he perceived that Bythewood and his man had halted on the other side of the bridge, and were going to water their horses in the bed of the stream. Clashing and rattling down the steep, stony banks, and plashing into the water, came the foam-streaked animals. The negro rode one, and led the other by the bridle. There he sat in the saddle, watching the eager drinking of the thirsty beasts, and pulling up their heads occasionally to prevent them from swallowing too fast or too much; all in full sight of the concealed schoolmaster. Bythewood, after dismounting, also walked down to the edge of the stream in full view.

Such was the situation when the three horsemen from the north arrived. They all rode their animals down the bank into the water. Penn had not been mistaken as to their character and business. Two of them were the men who had adjusted the noose to his neck the day before. The third was no less a personage than Captain Lysander Sprowl. Penn lay breathless and trembling in his hiding-place; for those men were but a few yards from him, and all in such plain view that it seemed inevitable but they must discover him.

"What luck?" said Bythewood, carelessly, seating himself on a rock and lighting a cigar.

"The rascal has given us the slip," said Lysander, from his horse. "I believe we have passed him, and so, on our way back, we'll search the house of every man suspected of Union sentiments. He started off with Stackridge's horse, and we tracked him easy at first, but to-day we haven't once heard of him."

"It's my opinion he don't intend to leave the state," said Bythewood, coolly smoking. "Sam, walk those horses up and down the road till I call you: I want a little private talk with the captain."

The captain's attendants likewise took the hint, reined their horses up out of the water, rode over the shaking bridge and Penn's head under it, and proceeded to search the next house for him, while Sprowl was conversing with Augustus.

"Let's go over the other side," said Bythewood, "where we can be in the shade. The sun is powerful hot."

They accordingly walked over Penn's head a moment later, climbed down the same rocks he had descended, picked their way along the dry stones to the bridge, and took their seats in its shadow beneath him, and so near that he could easily have reached over and taken the captain's cap from his head!



XX.

UNDER THE BRIDGE.

"The colonel wasn't aware of your sentiments," said Sprowl, "or he wouldn't have let him off for fifty substitutes."

"Or if you and Ropes," retorted Bythewood, "had only put through the job with the celerity I had a right to expect of you, he would have been strung up before the colonel had a chance to interfere." And he puffed impatiently a cloud of smoke, whose fragrance was wafted to the nostrils of the listener under the planks.

"Well," said Lysander, accepting a cigar from his friend, "if he gets out of the state,"—biting off the end of it,—"and never shows himself here again,"—rubbing a match on the stones,—"you ought to be satisfied. If he stays, or comes back,"—smoking,—"then we'll just finish the little job we begun."

Penn lay still as death. What his thoughts were I will not attempt to say; but it must have given him a curious sensation to hear the question of his life or death thus coolly discussed by his would-be assassins over their cigars.

"Where are you bound?" asked Lysander.

"O, a little pleasure excursion," said Bythewood. "There's to be some lively work at home this evening, and I thought I'd better be away."

"What's going on?"

"The colonel is going to make some arrests. About fifteen or twenty Union-shriekers will find themselves snapped up before they think of it. Stackridge among the first. 'Twas he, confound him! that helped the schoolmaster off."

"Has the colonel orders to make the arrests?"

"No, but he takes the responsibility. It's a military necessity, and the government will bear him out in it. Every man that has been known to drill in the Union Club, and has refused to deliver up his arms, must be secured. There's no other way of putting down these dangerous fellows," said Augustus, running his jewelled fingers through his curls.

"But why do you prefer to be away when the fun is going on?"

"There may be somebody's name in the list on whose behalf I might be expected to intercede."

"Not old Villars!" exclaimed Lysander.

"Yes, old Villars!" laughed Augustus,—"if by that lively epithet you mean to designate your venerable father-in-law."

"By George, though, Gus! ain't it almost too bad? What will folks say?"

"Little care I! Old and blind as he is, he is really one of the most dangerous enemies to our cause. His influence is great with a certain class, and he never misses an opportunity to denounce secession. That he openly talks treason, and harbors and encourages traitors arming against the confederate government, is cause sufficient for arresting him with the others."

"Really," said Sprowl, chuckling as he thought of it, "'twill be better for our plans to have him out of the way."

"Yes," said Bythewood; "the girls will need protectors, and your wife will welcome you back again."

"And Virginia," added Sprowl, "will perhaps look a little more favorably on a rich, handsome, influential fellow like you! I see! I see!"

There was another who saw too,—a sudden flash of light, as it were, revealing to Penn all the heartless, scheming villany of the friendly-seeming Augustus. He grasped the Stackridge pistol; his eyes, glaring in the dark, were fixed in righteous fury on the elegant curly head.

"If I am discovered, I will surely shoot him!" he said within himself.

"The old man," suggested Sprowl, "won't live long in jail."

"Very well," said Bythewood. "If the girls come to terms, why, we will secure their everlasting gratitude by helping him out. If they won't, we will merely promise to do everything we can for him—and do nothing."

"And the property?" said Lysander, somewhat anxiously.

"You shall have what you can get of it,—I don't care for the property!" replied Bythewood, with haughty contempt. "I believe the old man, foreseeing these troubles, has been converting his available means into Ohio railroad stock. If so, there won't be much for you to lay hold of until we have whipped the north."

"That we'll do fast enough," said Lysander, confidently.

"Well, I must be travelling," said Augustus.

"And I must be looking for that miserable schoolmaster."

So saying the young men arose from their cool seats on the stones,—Lysander placing his hand, to steady himself, on the edge of the butment within an inch of Penn's leg.

Darkness, however, favored the fugitive; and they passed out from the shadow of the bridge without suspecting that they had held confidential discourse within arms' length of the man they were seeking to destroy. They ascended the bank, mounted their horses, and took leave of each other,—Bythewood and his black man riding north, while Sprowl hastened to rejoin his companions in the search for the schoolmaster.



XXI.

THE RETURN INTO DANGER.

Trembling with excitement Penn got down from the butment, and peering over the bank, saw his enemies in the distance.

What was to be done? Had he thought only of his own safety, his way would have been clear. But could he abandon his friends? forsake Virginia and her father when the toils of villany were tightening around them? leave Stackridge and his compatriots to their fate, when it might be in his power to forewarn and save them?

How he, alone, suspected, pursued, and sorely in need of assistance himself, was to render assistance to others, he did not know. He did not pause to consider. He put his faith in the overruling providence of God.

"With God's aid," he said, "I will save them or sacrifice myself."

As for fighting, should fighting prove necessary, his mind was made up. The conversation of the villains under the bridge had settled that question.

Instead, therefore, of waiting for the friend who was to help him on his journey, he leaped up from under the bridge, and set out at a fast walk to follow his pursuers back to town.

He had travelled but a mile or two when he saw the farmer driving towards him in a wagon.

"Are you lost? are you crazy?" cried the astonished old man. "You are going in the wrong direction! The men have been to my house, searched it, and passed on. Get in! get in!"

"I will," said Penn; "but, Mr. Ellerton, you must turn back."

He briefly related his adventure under the bridge. The old man listened with increasing amazement.

"You are right! you are right!" he said. "We must get word to Stackridge, somehow!" And turning his wagon about, he drove back over the road as fast as his horse could carry them.

It was sunset when they reached his house. There they unharnessed his horse and saddled him. The old man mounted.

"I'll do my best," he said, "to see Stackridge, or some of them, in season. If I fail, may be you will succeed. But you'd better keep in the woods till dark."

Ellerton rode off at a fast trot. Penn hastened to the woods, where Stackridge's horse was still concealed. The animal had been recently fed and watered, and was ready for a hard ride. The bridle was soon on his head, and Penn on his back, and he was making his way through the woods again towards home.

As soon as it was dark, Penn came out into the open road; nor did he turn aside into the bridle-path when he reached it, because he wished to avoid travelling in company with Ellerton, who was to take that route. He also supposed that Sprowl's party would be returning that way. In this he was mistaken. Riding at a gallop through the darkness, his heart beating anxiously as the first twinkling lights of the town began to appear, he suddenly became aware of three horsemen riding but a short distance before him. They had evidently been drinking something stronger than water at the house of some good secessionist on the road, perhaps to console themselves for the loss of the schoolmaster,—for these were the excellent friends who were so eager to meet with him again! They were merry and talkative, and Penn, not ambitious of cultivating their acquaintance, checked his horse.

It was too late. They had already perceived his approach, and hailed him.

What should he do? To wheel about and flee would certainly excite their suspicions; they would be sure to pursue him; and though he might escape, his arrival in town would be thus perhaps fatally delayed. The arrests might be even at that moment taking place.

He reflected, "There are but three of them; I may fight my way through, if it comes to that."

Accordingly he rode boldly up to the assassins, and in a counterfeit voice, answered their hail. He was but little known to either of them, and there was a chance that, in the darkness, they might fail to recognize him.

"Where you from?" demanded Sprowl.

"From a little this side of Bald Mountain," said Penn,—which was true enough.

"Where bound?"

"Can't you see for yourself?" said Penn, assuming a reckless, independent air. "I am following my horse's nose, and that is going pretty straight into Curryville."

"Glad of your company," said Sprowl, riding gayly alongside. "What's your business in town, stranger?"

"Well," replied Penn, "I don't mind telling you that my business is to see if I and my horse can find something to do for old Tennessee."

"Ah! cavalry?" suggested Lysander, well pleased.

"I should prefer cavalry service to any other," answered Penn.

"There's where you right," said Sprowl; and he proceeded to enlighten Penn on the prospects of raising a cavalry company in Curryville.

"Did you meet any person on the road, travelling north?"

"What sort of a person?"

"A young feller, rather slim, brown hair, blue eyes, with a half-hung look, a perfect specimen of a sneaking abolition schoolmaster."

"I—I don't remember meeting any such a person," said Penn, as if consulting his memory. "I met two men, though, this side of old Bald. One of them was a rather gentlemanly-looking fellow; but I think his hair was black and curly."

"The schoolmaster's har is wavy, and purty dark, I call it," said one of Sprowl's companions.

"He must have been the man!" said Lysander, suddenly stopping his horse. "What sort of a chap was with him? Did he look like a Union-shrieker?"

"Now I think of it," said Penn, "if that man wasn't a Unionist at heart, I am greatly mistaken. His sympathies are with the Lincolnites, I know by his looks!" He neglected to add, however, that the man was black.

Sprowl was excited.

"It was some tory, piloting the schoolmaster! Boys, we must wheel about! It never'll do for us to go home as long as we can hear of him alive in the state. Remember the pay promised, if we catch him."

"Luck to you!" cried Penn, riding on, while Sprowl turned back in ludicrous pursuit of his own worthy friend, Mr. Augustus Bythewood, and his negro man Sam.

Penn lost no time laughing at the joke. His heart was too full of trouble for that. It had seemed to him, at each moment of delay, that the blind old minister was even then being torn from his home—that he could hear Virginia's sobs of distress and cries for help. He urged his horse into a gallop once more, and struck into a path across the fields. He rode to the edge of the orchard, dismounted, tied the horse, and hastened on foot to the house.

The guard was gone from the piazza, and all seemed quiet about the premises. The kitchen was dark. He advanced quickly, but noiselessly, to the door. It was open. He went in.

"Toby!" No answer. "Carl! Carl!" he called in a louder voice. No Carl replied. Then he remembered—what it seemed so strange that he could even for an instant forget—that Carl was in the rebel ranks, for his sake.

He had seen a light in the sitting-room. He found the door, and knocked. No answer came. He opened it softly, and entered. There burned the lamp on the table—there stood the vacant chairs—he was alone in the deserted room.

"Virginia!"

He started at his own voice, which sounded, in the hollow apartment, like the whisper of a ghost.

He was proceeding still farther, wondering at the stillness, terrified by his own forebodings, feeling in his appalled heart the contrast between this night, and this strange, furtive visit, and the happy nights, and the many happy visits, he had made to his dear friends there only a few short months before,—pausing to assure himself that he was not walking in a dream,—when he heard a footstep, a flutter, and saw, spring towards him through the door, pale as an apparition, Virginia. Speechless with emotion, she could not utter his name, but she testified the joy with which she welcomed him by throwing herself, not into his arms, but upon them, as he extended his hands to greet her.

"What has happened?" said Penn.

"O, my father!" said the girl. And she bowed her face upon his arm, clinging to him as if he were her brother, her only support.

"Where is he?" asked Penn, alarmed, and trembling with sympathy for that delicate, agitated, fair young creature, whom sorrow had so changed since he saw her last.

"They have taken him—the soldiers!" she said.

And by these words Penn knew that he had come too late.



XXII.

STACKRIDGE'S COAT AND HAT GET ARRESTED.

The outrage had been committed not more than twenty minutes before. Toby had followed his old master, to see what was to be done with him, and Virginia and her sister were in the street before the house, awaiting the negro's return, when Penn arrived.

"You could have done no good, even if you had come sooner," said Virginia. "There is but one man who could have prevented this cruelty."

"Why not send for him?"

"Alas! he left town this very day. He is a secessionist; but he has great influence, and appears very friendly to us."

Penn started, and looked at her keenly.

"His name?"

"Augustus Bythewood."

Penn recoiled.

"What's the matter?"

"Virginia, that man is thy worst enemy? I did not tell thee how I learned that the arrests were to be made. But I will!" And he told her all.

"O," said she, "if I had only believed what my heart has always said of that man, and trusted less to my eyes and ears, he would never have deceived me! If he, then, is an enemy, what hope is there? O, my father!"

"Do not despair!" answered Penn, as cheerfully as he could. "Something may be done. Stackridge and his friends may have escaped. I will go and see if I can hear any thing of them. Have faith in our heavenly Father, my poor girl! be patient! be strong! All, I am sure, will yet be well."

"But you too are in danger! You must not go!" she exclaimed, instinctively detaining him.

"I am in greater danger here, perhaps, than elsewhere."

"True, true! Go to your negro friends in the mountain—there is yet time! go!" and she hurriedly pushed him from her.

"When I find that nothing can be done for thy father, then I will return to Pomp and Cudjo—not before."

And he glided out of the back door just as Salina entered from the street.

He left the horse where he had tied him, and hastened on foot to Stackridge's house.

He approached with great caution. There was a light burning in the house, as on other summer evenings at that hour. The negroes—for Stackridge was a slaveholder—had retired to their quarters. There were no indications of any disturbance having taken place. Penn reconnoitred carefully, and, perceiving no one astir about the premises, advanced towards the door.

"Halt!" shouted a voice of authority.

And immediately two men jumped out from the well-curb, within which they had been concealed. Others at the same time rushed to the spot from dark corners, where they had lain in wait. Almost in an instant, and before he could recover from his astonishment, Penn found himself surrounded.

"You are our prisoner, Mr. Stackridge!" And half a dozen bayonets converged at the focus of his breast.

The young man comprehended the situation in a moment. Stackridge had not been arrested; he was absent from home; these ambushed soldiers had been awaiting his return; and they had mistaken the schoolmaster for the farmer.

The night was just light enough to enable them to recognize the coat and hat which had been Stackridge's, and which Penn still wore as a disguise. Features they could not discern so easily. The prisoner made no resistance, for that would have been useless; no outcry, for that would have revealed to them their mistake. He submitted without a word; and they marched him away, just as his supposed wife and children flew to the door, calling frantically, "Father! father!" and lamenting his misfortune.

By proclaiming his own identity, the prisoner would have gained nothing, probably, but a halter on the spot. On the other hand, by accepting the part forced upon him, he was at least gaining time. It might be, too, that he was rendering an important service to the real Stackridge by thus withdrawing the soldiers from their ambush, and giving him an opportunity to reach home and learn the danger he had escaped.

These considerations passed rapidly through his mind. He slouched his hat over his eyes, and marched with sullen, stubborn mien. In this manner he was taken to the village, and conducted to an old storehouse, which had lately been turned into a guard-house by the confederate authorities.

There was a great crowd around the dimly-lighted door, and other prisoners, similarly escorted, were going in. Amid the press and hurry, Penn passed the sentinels still unrecognized. He immediately found himself wedged in between the wall and a number of Tennessee Union men, some terrified into silence, others enraged and defiant, but all captives like himself.

In the farther end of the room, at a desk behind the counter, with candles at each side, sat the confederate colonel to whom Penn owed his life. He seemed to be receiving the reports of those who had conducted the arrests, and to be examining the prisoners. Beside him sat his aids and clerks. Before him Penn knew that he must soon appear. He was in darkness and disguise as yet, but he could not long avoid facing the light and the eyes of those who knew him well. What, then, would be his fate? Would he be retained a prisoner, like the rest, or delivered over to the mob that sought his life? He had time to decide upon a course which he hoped might gain him some favor.

Taking advantage of the shadow and confusion in which he was, he slipped off his disguise, and, elbowing his way through the crowd of prisoners, appeared, hat in hand and coat on arm, before the interior guard, and demanded to speak with the commanding officer.

"Sir, who are you?" said the colonel, failing, at first, to recognize him. Upon which Mr. Ropes, who was at his side, swore a great oath that it was the schoolmaster himself.

"But I have had no report of his arrest," cried the colonel. "How came you here, sir?"

"I wish to place myself under your protection," said Penn. "You received a substitute in my place, and ordered me to be set at liberty. But your commands have been disregarded; I have been hunted for two days; and men, calling themselves confederate soldiers, are still pursuing me. Under these circumstances I have thought it best to appeal to you, relying upon your honor as a gentleman and an officer."

"But how came you here? Who brought in this fellow?"

Nobody could answer that question, although the leader of the party that had brought him in was at the very moment on the spot, waiting to make his report of Stackridge's arrest.

As soon, therefore, as Penn could gain a hearing, he continued.

"I came in, sir, with a crowd of soldiers and prisoners, none of whom recognized me. The sentinels no doubt supposed I was arrested, and so let me pass."

"Well, sir, you have done a bold thing, and perhaps the best thing for you. Since you have voluntarily delivered yourself up, I shall feel bound to protect you. But I have only one of two alternatives to offer you—the same I offer to each of these worthy gentlemen here, giving them their choice. Take the oath of allegiance to the confederate government, and volunteer; that is one condition."

"I am a northern man," replied Penn, "and owe allegiance to the United States; so that condition it is impossible for me to accept."

"Very well; I'll give you time to think of it. In the mean while, my only means of affording the protection you demand will be to retain you a prisoner. Guard, take this man below."

Not another word was said; and, indeed, Penn had already gained more than he hoped for, with the eyes of Lieutenant Ropes glaring on him so murderously. He was conducted to a stairway that led to the cellar, and ordered to descend. He obeyed, marching down between two soldiers on guard at the door, and two more at the foot of the stairs.

It was a lugubrious subterranean apartment, lighted by a single lantern suspended from a beam. By its dim rays he discovered the figures of half a dozen fellow-prisoners; and, in the midst of the group, he recognized one, the sight of whom caused him to forget all his own misfortunes in an instant.

"My dear Mr. Villars! I have found you at last!" he exclaimed, grasping the old clergyman's hand.

"Penn, is it you?" said the blind old man.

He was seated on a dry goods box. Trembling and feeble, he arose to greet his young friend, with a noble courtesy very beautiful and touching under the circumstances.

"I cannot tell thee," said Penn, in a choked voice, "how grieved I am to see thee here!"

"And grieved am I that you should see me here!" Mr. Villars replied. "I hoped you were a hundred miles away. I was never sorry to have your company till now! How does it happen?"

Penn made him sit down again, giving him Stackridge's coat for a cushion, and related briefly his adventures.

"It is very singular," said the old man, thoughtfully. "It seems almost providential that you are here."

"I think it is so," said Penn. "I think I am here because I may be of service to you."

"Ah!" replied the old man, with a tender smile, "my life is of but little value compared with yours. I am a worn-out servant; my day of usefulness is past; I am ready to go home. I do not speak repiningly," he added. "If I can serve my country or my God by suffering—if nothing remains for me but that—then I will cheerfully suffer. Our heavenly Father orders all things; and I am content. All will be well with us, if we are obedient children; all will yet be well with our poor country, if it is true to itself and to Him."

"O, do not say thy day of usefulness is past, as long as thou canst speak such words!" said Penn, deeply moved.

"Thank God, I have faith! Even in this darkest hour of my life and of my country, I think I have more faith than ever. And I have love, too—love even for those violent men who have thrown us into this dungeon. They know not what they do. They act in ignorance and passion. They seek to destroy our dear old government; but they will only destroy what they are striving so madly to build up."

"Yes," said one of the prisoners, "the institution will be ruined by those very men! They are worse than the abolitionists themselves; and I hate 'em worse!"

"Hate their errors, Captain Grudd, hate their crimes, but hate no man," Mr. Villars softly replied.

"And you would have us submit to them?"

"Submit, when you can do no better. But even for their sakes, even for the love of them, my friend, resist their crimes when you can. No man will stand by and see a maniac murder his wife and children. It will be better for the poor maddened wretch himself to prevent him; don't you think so, Penn?"

"I do," said Penn, who knew that the argument was meant for himself, not for the rest. "I am thoroughly convinced. You were always right on that subject; and I was always wrong."

"I perceive," said the old man, "that you have had experience. It is not I that have convinced you; it is the logic of events."

One by one, the prisoners from above followed Penn down the dismal stairs. Only now and then a fainthearted Unionist consented to regain his liberty by taking the oath of allegiance, and "volunteering." At length the room above was cleared, and no more prisoners arrived. Penn, who had kept anxious watch for his friend Stackridge, was congratulating himself upon the perfect success of his stratagem, when the corporal who had brought him in came rushing down the stairs, accompanied by Lieutenant Ropes.

"Stackridge!" he called, searching among the prisoners; "is Medad Stackridge here?"

No man had seen him.

"Then I tell you," said the corporal to Silas, "he is hid somewhere up stairs, or else he has escaped; for I can swear I arrested him."

"I can swear you was drunk," said Silas, much disgusted. "You have let the wust man of the lot slip through your fingers; for it's certain he ain't here."

Penn trembled for a minute. But both Ropes and the corporal passed him without a suspicion of what was agitating him; and he felt immensely relieved when they returned up the stairs, and the mystery remained unexplained.

The prisoners in the cellar were about twelve in number. Nearly all were sturdy, earnest men. Penn noticed that they were not cast down by their misfortunes, but that they whispered among themselves, exchanging glances of intelligence and defiance. At length Captain Grudd came to him, and taking him aside, said,—

"Well, professor, what do you think of the situation?"

"We seem to be at the mercy of the villains," replied Penn.

"Not so much at their mercy either, if we choose to be men! What we want to know is, will you join us? And if there should be a little fighting to do, will you help do it?"

Penn grasped his hand. "Show me that we have any chance of escape, and I am with you!"

"I thought you would come to it at last!" Grudd smiled grimly. "What we want, to begin with, is a few handy weapons. But we have all been disarmed. Have you anything? I noticed they did not search you, probably because you came voluntarily and gave yourself up."

"I have Stackridge's pistol. It is in the coat Mr. Villars is sitting on."

Grudd's eyes lighted up at this unexpected good news. "It will come in play! We must shoot or strangle these fellows, and have their guns,"—with a glance at the soldiers on guard.

"But the room up stairs is full of soldiers, and there is a strong guard posted outside, probably surrounding the building."

"We will have as little to do with them as possible. Young man, I have a secret for you. Do you know whose property this is?"

"Barber Jim's, I believe."

"And do you know there's a secret passage from this cellar into the cellar under Jim's shop? It was dug by Jim himself, as a hiding-place for his wife and children. He had bought them, but the heirs of their former owner had set up a claim to them. After that matter was settled, he showed Stackridge the place; and that's the way we came to make use of it. We stored our guns in the passage, and came through into this cellar at night to consult and drill. The store being shut, and the windows all fastened and boarded up, made a quiet place of it. As good luck would have it, the night before the military took possession, Jim warned us, and we carefully put back every stone in the wall, and left. But some of our guns are still in the passage, if they have not been discovered. We have only to open the wall again to get at them. But before that can be done, the guard must be disposed of."

Penn, who had listened with intense interest to this recital, drew a long breath.

"Is the passage behind the spot where Mr. Villars is sitting?"

"Within three feet of the box."

"Then I fear it is discovered. I heard a noise behind that wall not ten minutes ago."

Grudd started. "Are you sure?"

"Quite sure."

"It must be Jim himself; or else we have been betrayed."

"Was the secret known to many?"

"To all our club, and one besides," said Grudd, frowning anxiously. "Stackridge made a mistake; I told him so!"

"How?"

"We were drilling here that night when Dutch Carl came to tell us you were in danger. Stackridge said he knew the boy, and would trust him. So he brought him in here. And Carl is now a rebel volunteer."

"With him your secret is safe!" Penn hastened to assure the captain. "Stackridge was right. Carl——"

He paused suddenly, looking at the stairs. Even while the boy's name was on his lips, the boy himself was entering the cellar. He carried a musket. He wore the confederate uniform. He was accompanied by Gad and an officer. They had come to relieve the guard. The men who had previously been on duty at the foot of the stairs retired with the officer, and Gad and Carl remained in their place.

Penn at the sight was filled with painful solicitude. To have seen his young friend and pupil shoulder a confederate musket, knowing that it was the love of him that made him a rebel, would alone have been grief enough. How much worse, then, to see him placed here in a position where it might be necessary, in Grudd's opinion, to "shoot or strangle" him! But having once exchanged glances with the boy, Penn's mind was set at rest.

"He has kept your secret," he said to Grudd. "He is very shrewd; and if we need help, he will help us."

But the noise Penn had heard behind the wall was troubling the captain. They retired to that part of the cellar. They had been there but a short time when a very distinct knock was heard on the stones. It sounded like a signal. Grudd responded, striking the wall with his heel as he leaned his back against it. Then followed a low whistle in the passage. The captain's dark features lighted up.

"We are safe!" he whispered in Penn's ear. "It is Stackridge himself!"



XXIII.

THE FLIGHT OF THE PRISONERS.

Then commenced strategy. The prisoners gathered in a group before the closed passage, and talked loud, while Grudd established a communication with Stackridge. In the course of an hour a single stone in the wall had been removed. Through the aperture thus formed a bottle was introduced. This Grudd pretended afterwards to take from his pocket; and having (apparently) drank, he offered it to his friends. All drank, or appeared to drink, in a manner that provoked Gad's thirst. He vowed that it was too bad that anything good should moisten the lips of tory prisoners while a soldier like him went thirsty.

"I never saw the time, Gad," said the captain, "when I wouldn't share a bottle with you, and I will now."

Gad held his gun with one hand and grasped the bottle with the other. Penn seized the moment when his eyes were directed upwards at the cobweb festoons that adorned the cellar, and the sound of gurgling was in his throat, to whisper in Carl's ear,—

"Appear to drink, and by and by pass the bottle up stairs."

Carl understood the game in an instant.

"Here, you fish!" he said, in the midst of Gad's potation. "Leafe a little trop for me, vill you?"

It was some time before the torrent in Gad's throat ceased its murmuring, and he removed his eyes from the cobwebs. Then, smacking his lips, and remarking that it was the right sort of stuff, he passed the bottle to Carl.

"Who's the fish this time?" said he, enviously, after Carl had made believe swallow for a few seconds.

He snatched the bottle, and was drinking as before, when the guard above, hearing what passed, called for a taste.

"You shust vait a minute till Gad trinks it all up, then you shall pe velcome to vot ish left," said Carl. And, possessing himself of the bottle, he handed it up to his comrades.

All the soldiers above were asleep except the sentinels. They drank freely, and returned the bottle to Gad. He had not finished it before he began to be overcome by drowsiness, its contents having been drugged for the occasion.

He sat down on the stairs, and soon slid off upon the ground. Carl, who had not in reality swallowed a drop, followed his example. Their guns were then taken from them. Penn stole softly up the stairs, and reconnoitred while Grudd and his companions opened the passage in the wall.

"All asleep!" Penn whispered, descending. "Carl!"

Carl opened one eye, with a droll expression.

"Are you asleep?"

"Wery!" said Carl.

"Will you stay here, or go with us?"

"You vill take me prisoner?"

"If you wish it."

"Say you vill plow my brains out if I say vun vord, or make vun noise."

"Come, come! there's no time for fooling, Carl!"

"It ish no vooling!" And Carl insisted on Penn's making the threat. "Veil, then, I vill vake up and go 'long mit you."

Mr. Villars had been for some time sleeping soundly; for it was now long past midnight, and weariness had overcome him. Penn awoke him; but the old man refused to escape. "Go without me. I shall be too great a burden for you." But not one of his fellow-prisoners would consent to leave him behind; and, listening to their expostulations, he at length arose to accompany them.

Stackridge was in the passage, with the old man Ellerton, whom Penn had sent to warn him. They had brought a supply of ammunition for the guns, which they had loaded and placed ready for use. Penn, supporting and guiding the old minister, was the first to pass through into the cellar under Jim's shop. Stackridge, preceding them with a lantern, greeted their escape with silent and grim exultation. Carl came next. Then, one by one, the others followed, each grasping his gun; the rays of the lantern lighting up their determined faces, as they emerged from the low passage, and stood erect, an eager, whispering group, around Stackridge.

Brief the consultation. Their plans were soon formed. Leaving Gad asleep in the cellar behind them; the guard asleep, the soldiers all asleep, in the room above; the sentinels outside the old storehouse keeping watch, pacing to and fro around the cellar, in which not a prisoner remained,—Stackridge and his companions filed out noiselessly through Jim's closed and silent shop, upon the other street, and took their way swiftly through the town.

Having appointed a place of meeting with his friends, Penn left them, and hastened alone to Mr. Villars's house. The lights had long been out. But the sisters were awake; Virginia had not even gone to bed. She was sitting by her window, gazing out on the hushed, gloomy, breathless summer night,—waiting, waiting, she scarce knew for what,—when she was aware of a figure approaching, and knew Penn's light, quick tap at the door.

She ran down to admit him. His story was quickly told. Toby was roused up; blankets were rolled together, and all the available provisions that could be carried were thrust into baskets.

"How shall we get news to you? You will want to hear from your father." Penn hastily thought of a plan. "Send Toby to the round rock,—he knows where it is,—on the side of the mountain. Between nine and ten o'clock to-morrow night. I will try to communicate with him there." And Penn, bidding the young girl be of good cheer, departed as suddenly as he had arrived.

The old negro accompanied him, assisting to carry the burdens. They found Stackridge's horse where he had been fastened. Penn made Toby mount, take a basket in each hand, and hold the blankets before him on the neck of the horse; then, seizing the bridle, and running by his side, he trotted the beast away across the field in a manner that shook the old negro up in lively style.

"O, Massa Penn! I can't stan' dis yere! I's gwine all to pieces! I shall drap some o' dese yer tings, shore!"

"You must stand it! hold on to them!" said Penn. "And now keep still, for we are near the road."

The party had halted at the rendezvous. Mr. Villars, quite exhausted by his unusual exertions, was seated on the ground when Penn came up with Toby and the horse. Toby dismounted; the old minister mounted in his place, and the negro was sent back.

All this passed swiftly and silently; the fugitives were once more on the march, Penn walking by the old man's side. Scarce a word was spoken; the tramp of feet and the sound of the horse's hoofs alone broke the silence of the night. Suddenly a voice hailed them:—

"Who goes there?"

And they discovered some horsemen drawn up before them beside the road. It was the night-patrol.

"Friends," answered Stackridge, marching straight on.

"Halt, and give an account of yourselves!" shouted the patrol.

"We are peaceable citizens, if let alone," said Stackridge. "You'd better not meddle with us."

The horsemen waited for them to pass, then, firing their pistols at the fugitives, put spurs to their horses, and galloped away towards the village.

"Don't fire!" cried Stackridge, as half a dozen pieces were levelled in the darkness. "We've no ammunition to throw away, and no time to lose. They'll give the alarm. Take straight to the mountains!"

Nobody had been hit. Turning aside from the road, they took their way across the broad pasture lands that sloped upwards to the rocky hills. The dark valley spread beneath them; on the other side rose the dim outlines of the shadowy mountain range; over all spread a still, cloudless sky, thick-strewn with glittering star-dust.

In the village, the ringing of bells startled the night with a wild clamor. Stackridge laughed.

"They'll make noise enough now to wake Gad himself! But noise won't hurt anybody. Hear the drums!"

"They are coming this way," said Penn.

"Fools, to set out in pursuit of us with drums beating!" said Captain Grudd. "Very kind in them to give us notice! They should bring lighted torches, too."

"Once in the mountains," said Stackridge, "we are safe. There we can defend ourselves against a hundred. Other Union men will join us, or bring us supplies. We ought to have made this move before; and I'm glad we've been forced to it at last. If every Union man in the south had made a bold stand in the beginning, this cursed rebellion never would have got such a start."

Suddenly bells and drums were silent. "The less noise the more danger," said Stackridge. The way was growing difficult for the horse's feet. The cow-paths, which it had been easy to follow at first, disappeared among the thickets. At length, on the crest of a hill, the party halted to rest.

"Daylight!" said Stackridge, turning his face to the east.

The sky was brightening; the shadows in the valley melted slowly away; far off the cocks crew.

"Hark!" said the captain. "Do you hear anything?"

"I heard a woice!" said Carl.

"Hist!" said Penn. "Look yonder! there they come! around those bushes at the foot of the oak!"

"Sure as fate, there they are!" said the captain.

The fugitives crowded to his side, eager, grasping their gunstocks, and peering with intent eyes through the darkness in the direction in which he pointed.

"Take the horse," said Stackridge to Penn, "and lead him up through that gap out of the reach of the bullets. We'll stay and give these rascals a lesson. Go along with him, Carl, if you don't want to fight your friends."

There were not guns enough for all; and Grudd had Stackridge's revolver. There was nothing better, then, for Penn and Carl to do than to consent to this arrangement.

Penn went before, leading the horse up the dry bed of a brook. Carl followed, urging the animal from behind. Mr. Villars rode with the baggage, which had been lashed to the saddle. Only the clashing of the iron hoofs on the stones broke the stillness of the morning in that mountain solitude. Stackridge and his compatriots had suddenly become invisible, crouching among bushes and behind rocks.

The retreat of Penn and his companions was discovered by the pursuing party, who mistook it for a general flight of the fugitives. They rushed forward with a shout. They had a rugged and barren hill to ascend. Half way up the slope they saw flashes of fire burst from the rocks above, heard the rapid "crack—crackle—crack!" of a dozen pieces, and retreated in confusion down the hill again.

Stackridge and his companions coolly proceeded to reload their guns.

"They didn't know we had arms," said the farmer, with a grim smile. "They'll be more cautious now."

"We've done for two or three of 'em!" said Captain Grudd. "There they lie; one is crawling off."

"Let him crawl!" said Stackridge. "Sorry to kill any of 'em; but it's about time for 'em to know we're in 'arnest."

"They've gone to cover in the laurels," said Grudd. "Let's shift our ground, and watch their movements."

Penn and Carl in the mean time made haste to get the horse and his burden beyond the reach of bullets. They toiled up the bed of the brook until it was no longer passable. Huge bowlders lay jammed and crowded in clefts of the mountain before them. Penn remembered the spot. He had been there in spring, when down over the rocks, now covered with lichens and dry scum, poured an impetuous torrent.

"Now I know where I am," he said. "I don't believe it is possible to get the horse any farther. We will wait here for our friends. Mr. Villars, if you will dismount, we will try to get you up on the bank."

"I pity you, my children," said the old man. "You should never have encumbered yourselves with such a burden as I am. I can neither fight nor run. Is it sunrise yet?"

"It is sunrise, and a beautiful morning! The fresh rays come to us here, sifted through the dewy trees. Sit down on this rock. Find the luncheon, Carl. Ah, Carl!"—Penn regarded the boy affectionately,—"I am glad to have you with me again, but I can't forget that you are a rebel! and a deserter!"

"I a deserter? you mishtake," said Carl. "I am a prisoner."

"You disobeyed me, Carl! I told you not to enlist. You did wrong."

"Now shust listen," said Carl, "and I vill tell you. I did right. Cause vy. You are alive and vell now, ain't you?"

Penn smilingly admitted the fact.

"And that is petter as being hung?"

"I am not so very certain of that, Carl!"

"Vell, I am certain for you. Hanging ish no goot. Hunderts of vellers that don't like the rebels no more as you do, wolunteer rather than to be hung. Shows their goot sense."

"But you have taken an oath—you are under a solemn engagement, Carl, to fight against the government."

"You mishtake unce more—two times. I make a pargain. I say to that man, 'You let Mishter Hapgoot go free, and not let him be hurt, and I vill be a rebel.' Vell, he agrees. But he don't keep his vord. He lets 'em go for to hang you vunce more. Now, if he preaks his part of the pargain, vy shouldn't I preak mine?"

"Well, Carl," said Penn, laughing, while his eyes glistened, "I trust thy conscience is clear in the matter. I can only say that, though I don't approve of thy being a rebel, I love thee all the better for it. What do you think, Mr. Villars?"

"Sometimes people do wrong from a motive so pure and disinterested that it sanctifies the action. This is Carl's case, I think."

"Hello!" cried Carl, jumping up from the bank on which they were seated. "Guns! They are at it again! I vill go see!"

The boy disappeared, scrambling down the dry bed of the torrent.

The firing continued at irregular intervals for half an hour. Carl did not return. Penn grew anxious. He stood, intently listening, when he heard a noise behind him, and, turning quickly, saw the glimmer of musket-barrels over the rocks.

"Fire!" said a voice.

And Penn threw himself down under the bank just in time to avoid the discharge of half a dozen pieces aimed at his head.

"What is the trouble?" asked the old man, who was lying on some blankets spread for him there in the shade.

Before Penn could reply, Silas Ropes and six men came rushing down upon them. Stackridge had been out-generalled. Whilst he and his men were being diverted by a feigned attack in front, two different parties had been despatched by circuitous routes to get in his rear. In executing the part of the plan intrusted to him, Ropes had unexpectedly come upon the schoolmaster and his companion. A minute later both were seized and dragged up from the bed of the torrent.

"Ye don't escape me this time!" said Silas, with brutal exultation. "Tie him up to the tree thar; serve the old one the same. We can't be bothered with prisoners."

"What are you going to do to that helpless, blind old man?" cried Penn. "Do what you please with me; I expect no mercy,—I ask none. But I entreat you, respect his gray hair!"

The appeal seemed to have some effect even on the savage-hearted Silas. He glanced at his men: they were evidently of the opinion that the slaughter of the old clergyman was uncalled for.

"Wal, tie the old ranter, and leave him. Quick work, boys. Got the schoolmaster fast?"

"All right," said the men.

"Wal, now stand back here, and les' have a little bayonet practice."

Penn knew very well what that meant. His clothes were stripped from him, in order to present a fair mark for the murderous steel; and he was bound to a tree.

"One at a time," said Silas. "Try your hand, Griffin. Charge—bayonet!"

In vain the old minister endeavored to make himself heard in his friend's behalf. He could only pray for him.

Penn saw the ferocious soldier springing towards him, the deadly bayonet thrust straight at his heart. In an instant the murder would have been done. But when within two paces of his victim, the steel almost touching his breast, Griffin uttered a yell, dropped his gun, flung up his hands, and fell dead at Penn's feet.

At the same moment a light curl of smoke was wafted from the heaped bowlders in the chasm above, and the echoes of a rifle-crack reverberated among the rocks.

The assassins were terror-struck. They looked all around; not a human being was in sight. Distant firing proclaimed that Stackridge and his men were still engaged. The death that struck down Griffin seemed to have fallen from heaven. They waited but a moment, then fled precipitately, leaving Penn still bound, but uninjured, with the dead rebel at his feet.

Then two figures came gliding swiftly down over the rocks. Penn uttered a cry of joy. It was Pomp and Cudjo.



XXIV.

THE DEAD REBEL'S MUSKET.

Pomp came reloading his rifle, while Cudjo, knife in hand, flew at the cords that confined the schoolmaster.

In his gratitude to Heaven and his deliverers, Penn could have hugged that grotesque, half-savage creature to his heart. But no time was to be lost. Snatching the knife, he hastened to release the bewildered clergyman.

"Pomp, my noble fellow!" The negro turned from looking after the retreating rebels, with a gleam of triumph on his proud and lofty features: Penn wrung his hand. "You have twice saved my life—now let me ask one more favor of you! Take Mr. Villars to your cave—do for him what you have done for me. He is a much better Christian, and far more deserving of your kindness, than I ever was."

"And you?" said Pomp, quietly.

"I will take my chance with the others." And Penn in few words explained the occurrences of the night and morning.

Pomp shrugged his shoulders frowningly. The time was at hand when he and Cudjo could no longer enjoy in freedom their wild mountain life; even they must soon be drawn into the great deadly struggle. This he foresaw, and his soul was darkened for a moment.

"Cudjo! Shall we take this old man to our den?"

"No, no! Don't ye take nobody dar! on'y Massa Hapgood."

"But he is blind!" said Penn.

"Others will come after who are not blind," said Pomp, his brow still stern and thoughtful.

"My friends," interposed the old clergyman, mildly, "do nothing for me that will bring danger to yourselves, I entreat you!"

These unselfish words, spoken with serious and benignant aspect, touched the generous chords in Pomp's breast.

"Why should we blacks have anything to do with this quarrel?" he said with earnest feeling. "Your friends down there"—meaning Stackridge and his party—"are all slaveholders or pro-slavery men. Why should we care which side destroys the other?"

"There is a God," answered Mr. Villars, with a beaming light in his unterrified countenance, "who is not prejudiced against color; who loves equally his black and his white children; and who, by means of this war that seems so needless and so cruel, is working out the redemption, not of the misguided white masters only, but also of the slave. Whether you will or not, this war concerns the black man, and he cannot long keep out of it. Then will you side with your avowed enemies, or with those who are already fighting in your cause without knowing it?"

These words probed the deep convictions of Pomp's breast. He had from the first believed that the war meant death to slavery; although of late the persistent and almost universal cry of Union men for the "Union as it was,"—the Union with the injustice of slavery at its core,—had somewhat wearied his patience and weakened his faith.

"Here, Cudjo! help get this horse up—we can find a path for him."

Reluctantly Cudjo obeyed; and almost by main strength the two athletic blacks lifted and pulled the animal up the bank, and out of the chasm.

Penn assisted his old friend to remount, then took leave of him.

"I will be with you again soon!" he cried, hopefully, as the negroes urged the horse forward into the thickets.

Then the young Quaker, left alone, turned to look at the dead rebel. For a moment horrible nausea and faintness made him lean against the tree for support. It was the first violent death of which he had ever been an eye-witness. He had known this man,—who was indeed the same Griffin, who had assisted the unwilling Pepperill to bring the tar-kettle to the wood-side on a certain memorable evening; ignorant, intemperate, too proud to work in a region where slavery made industry a disgrace, and yet a fierce champion of the system which was his greatest curse. Now there he lay, in his dirt, and rags, and blood, his neck shot through; the same expression of ferocious hate with which he had rushed to bayonet the schoolmaster still distorting his visage;—an object of horror and loathing. Was it not assuming a terrible responsibility to send this rampant sinner to his long account? Yet the choice was between his life and Penn's; and had not Pomp done well? Still Penn could not help feeling remorse and commiseration for the wretch.

"Poor Griffin! I have no murderous hatred for such as you! But if you come in the way of my country's safety, or of the welfare of my friends, you must take the penalty!"

He picked up the musket that had fallen at his feet where he stood bound. Then, stifling his disgust, he felt in the dead man's pockets for ammunition. Cartridges there were none; but in their place he found some bullets and a powder-flask. Then putting in practice the lessons he had learned of Pomp when they hunted together on the mountain, he loaded the gun, resolutely setting his teeth and drawing his breath hard when he thought of the different kind of game it might now be his duty to shoot.

While thus occupied he heard footsteps that gave him a sudden start. He turned quickly, catching up the gun. To his immense relief he saw Pomp, approaching with a smile.

"I thought you were with Mr. Villars!"

"Cudjo has gone with him. I am going with you."

"O Pomp!" cried Penn, with a joyful sense of reliance upon his powerful and sagacious black friend. "But is Mr. Villars safe?"

"Cudjo is faithful," said Pomp. "He believes the old man is your friend, and a friend of the slave. Besides, I promised, if he would take him to the cave, that my next shot, if I have a chance, should be at his old acquaintance, Sile Ropes."

Pomp took the lead, guiding Penn through hollows and among thickets to a ledge crowned with shrubs of savin, whose summit commanded a view of all that mountain-side.

They crept among the bushes to the edge of the cliff. There they paused. Neither friend nor foe was in sight. No sound of fire-arms was heard,—only the birds were singing.

Penn never forgot that scene. How fresh, and beautiful, and still the morning was! The sunlight flushed the craggy and wooded slopes. Far off, dim with early mist, lay the lovely hills and valleys of East Tennessee. On the north the peaks of the mountain range soared away, purple, rosy, glorious, in soft suffusing light. In the south-west other peaks receded, billowy and blue. And God's pure, deep sky was over all.

Touched by the divine beauty of the day, Penn lay thinking with shame of the scenes of human folly and violence with which it had been desecrated, when the negro drew him softly by the sleeve.

"Look yonder! down in the edge of that little grove!"

Peering through an opening in the savins through which Pomp had thrust his rifle, Penn saw, stealing cautiously out of the grove, a man.

"It is Stackridge! He is reconnoitring."

"It is a retreat," said Pomp. "See, there they all come!"

"Carl with the rest, showing them the way!" added Penn.

He was watching with intense interest the movements of his friends, and rejoicing that no foe was in sight, when suddenly Pomp uttered a warning whisper.

"Where? what?" said Penn, eagerly looking in the direction in which the negro pointed.

Down at their left was a long line of dark thickets which marked the edge of a ravine; out of which he now saw emerging, one by one, a file of armed men. They climbed up a narrow and difficult pass, and halted on the skirts of the thicket. Ten—twelve—fifteen, Penn counted. It was the other party that had been sent out simultaneously with that under Lieutenant Ropes, to get in the rear of the fugitives. And they had succeeded. Only a bushy ridge concealed them from Stackridge's men, who were coming up under the shelter of the same ridge on the other side.

Penn trembled with excitement as he saw the rebels cross swiftly forward, skulking among the bushes, to the summit of the ridge. The negro's eyes blazed, but he was perfectly cool. On one knee, his left foot advanced,—holding his rifle with one hand, and parting the bushes with the other,—he smiled as he observed the situation.

"Here," said he to Penn, "rest your gun in this little crotch. Now can you see to take aim?"

"Yes," said Penn, with his heart in his throat.

"Calm your nerves! Everything depends on our first shot. Wait till I give the word. See! they have discovered Stackridge!"

"We might shout, and warn him," said Penn, whose nature still shrank from using any more deadly means of saving his friends.

"And so discover ourselves! That never'll do. Have you sighted your man?"

"Yes—the one lying on his belly behind that cedar."

"Very well! I'll take the fellow next him. The moment you have fired, keep perfectly still, only draw your gun back and load. Now—fire!"

Just then Stackridge and his men, in full view of their hidden friends on the ledge, were appearing to the fifteen ambushed rebels also. Suddenly the loud bang of a musket, followed instantly by the sharp crack of a rifle, echoed down the mountain side. The rebel behind the cedar sprang to his feet, dropping his gun, and throwing up his hands, and rushed back down the ridge, screaming, "I'm hit! I'm hit!" while the man next him also attempted to rise, but fell again, Pomp having discreetly aimed at an exposed leg.

"I'm glad we've only wounded them!" whispered Penn, very pale, his lips compressed, his eyes gleaming.

"It has the effect!" said Pomp. "Your friends have discovered the ambush, thanks to that coward's uproar; and now the rascals are panic-struck! Fire again as they go into the ravine—powder alone will do now—a little noise will send them tumbling!"

They accordingly fired blank discharges; at the same time Stackridge and his friends, recovering from their momentary astonishment, charged after the retreating rebels, who had barely time to carry off their wounded and escape into the ravine, when their pursuers scaled the ridge.

"I'm off!" said Pomp, creeping back through the savins. "These men are not my friends, though they are yours. I'll go and look after Cudjo." And bounding down into a hollow, he was quickly out of sight.



XXV.

BLACK AND WHITE.

Penn attached his handkerchief to the end of the musket, and standing upon the ledge, waved it over the bushes. Carl, recognizing him, was the first to scramble up the height. The whole party followed, each sturdy patriot wringing the schoolmaster's hand with hearty congratulations when they learned what use he had made of the rebel musket.

"But the whole credit of the manoeuvre belongs not to me, but to the negro Pomp!" And he related the story of his own rescue and theirs.

The patriots looked grave.

"Where is the fellow?" asked Stackridge.

"Being a fugitive slave, he feared lest he should find little favor in the eyes of his master's neighbors," said Penn.

"That's where he was right!" said Deslow, with a bigoted and unforgiving expression. "Nothing under the sun shall make me give encouragement to a nigger's running away."

Two or three others nodded grim assent to this first principle of the slaveholder's discipline. Penn was fired with exasperation and scorn, and would have separated himself from these narrow-minded patriots on the spot, had not Stackridge jumped up from the ground upon which he had thrown himself, and, striking his gun barrel fiercely, exclaimed,—

"Now, that's what I call cursed foolishness, Deslow! and every man that holds to that way of thinking had better go over to t'other side to oncet! If we can't make up our minds to sacrifice our property, and, what's more to some folks, our prejudices, in the cause we're fighting for, we may as well stop before we stir a step further. I'm a slaveholder, and always have been; but I swear, I can't say as I ever felt it was such a divine institution as some try to make it out, and I don't believe there's a man here that thinks in his heart that it's just right. And as for the niggers running away, my private sentiment is, that I don't blame 'em a mite. You or I, Deslow, would run in their place; you know you would." And Stackridge wiped his brow savagely.

"And as for this particular case," said Captain Grudd, with a gleam of light in his lean and swarthy countenance, "don't le's be blind to our own interests; don't le's be downright fools. I've said from the first that slavery and the rebellion was brother and sister,—they go together; and I've made up my mind to stand by my country and the old flag, whatever comes of the institution." All, except the conservative Deslow, applauded this resolution. "Then consider," added the captain, his deliberate, impressive manner proving quite as effective as Stackridge's more excited and fiery style,—"here we are fighting for our very lives and liberties; and if, as I say, slavery's the cause of this war, then we're fighting against slavery, the best we can fix it. How monstrous absurd 'twill be, then, for us to refuse the assistance of any nigger that has it to give! Bythewood, Pomp's owner, is one of the hottest secessionists I know; and d'ye think I want Pomp sent back to him, to help that side, when he has shown that he can be of such mighty good service to us? I move that we send the professor to make a treaty with him. What do you say, Mr. Hapgood?"

"I say," replied Penn with enthusiasm, "that he and Cudjo are in a condition to do infinitely more for us than we can do for them; and if their alliance can be secured, I say that we ought by all means to secure it."

"That depends," said Grudd, "upon what we intend to do. Are we going to make a stand here, and see if the loyal part of old Tennessee will rise up and sustain us? or are we going to fight our way over the mountains, and never come back till a Union army comes with us to set things a little to rights here?"

"Wa'al," said Withers, who concealed a hardy courage and earnest patriotism under a phlegmatic and droll exterior, "while we're discussin' that question, I reckon we may as well have breakfast. This is as good a place as any,—we can take turns keeping a lookout from that ledge."

He proceeded to kindle a fire in the hollow. The fugitives, in passing a field of corn, had thrust into their pockets a plentiful supply of green ears, which they now husked and roasted. There was a spring in the rocks near by, from which they drank lying on their faces, and dipping in their beards. This was their breakfast; during which Penn's mission to the blacks was fully discussed, and finally decided upon.

The meal concluded, the refugees resumed their march, and entered an immense thick wood farther up the mountain. In a cool and shadowy spot they halted once more; and here Penn took leave of them, setting out on his visit to the cave.