“I am almost spent!” gasped Lettice; “but if they have left the boat this side, we are safe. Over yonder in the woods lives an old negro woman. She is considered a real hoodoo by the darkeys, but she is devoted to all our family, for she belonged to my grandfather, who set her free, and gave her this bit of land in those woods of his.” She gave the information in detached sentences, as she limped along the shores of the creek.
“You can scarcely walk,” said Mr. Baldwin. “You have lamed yourself.”
“Have I? I was scarcely conscious of it. I have stepped on many sharp stones, and these thin slippers are not much protection. No, there is no boat,” she said, after some searching. “What shall we do? We have made a short cut, but those wretches may yet find us, if we keep this side of the creek. Oh, I am afraid they will; I am afraid!” She caught Mr. Baldwin’s arm with a sudden fear.
“God forbid that they should find us!”
“You are hurt too. You are wounded, I know, but do you think you could swim to that little island in mid-stream? I would rather drown in making the attempt than have them get me.”
“And I would rather you did. I think I can make it, and I can help you.”
“Oh, I can swim, if I have the strength. I but need that. Hark!”
There was a sound of voices and of crackling branches among the trees behind them, and, with one accord, they plunged into the stream, and with slow, but sure progress, swimming, floating, or making feeble strokes, managed to reach the opposite shore, and when they drew themselves up on the sands, their pursuers were parted from them by a considerable stream of water.
Lettice dropped almost fainting on the ground, and her companion was hardly less exhausted. It would have been a very trifling feat for either one of them, ordinarily, but the previous strain had nearly robbed them of their strength, and they sat there for some moments, scarce able and scarce daring to move.
“We are very wet,” said Mr. Baldwin at last.