That wasn't very comforting, but I didn't say that I felt it was the very worst thing that could befall me; but, instead, I spoke up: "That will be all right. I shall be glad to get away from this place as soon as possible."

"Oh, yes; we will see you safely to our headquarters."

Then giving some directions to the sergeant of his squad to get ready to move, he turned again to me and said, kindly:

"I am sorry that I have no horse for you, sir; and, as we are now detained considerably, I will ride on ahead. These two men will come on more leisurely with you."

That was one good point—the chances for escape were increased three-fourths, or in direct ratio to the reduction of my body-guard, or escort from eight to two.

I was inside the Rebel pickets again, and they had been made more alert, and would be more watchful after their carelessness of the night previous. This, with the fact that I had been scrutinized by so many soldiers on that morning ride through their lines and camps, would make any attempt to escape in that direction doubly dangerous; therefore I concluded I should try to quietly get away from these two soldiers at the first favorable opportunity; if I succeeded, I should not dare to attempt passing that picket-line a second time, especially in daylight.

It was quite a relief to me to say good-by to the old bushwhacker and his crowd of Rebs from my seat on the rear end of the horse. He had something to say about "not coming back that way again," as we rode off. They detained our companion a moment or two, while I imagined they poured into his head some cautions or directions about taking care of me. When he caught up to us, he said, laughingly: "Them fellows think you are a bad man."

This was thought to be too funny for anything; and to keep up the joke, I grabbed my man around the stomach and called on him to surrender to me at once, or I'd pull his hair.

We trotted along the road in this laughing humor for a mile or so; my heart was not in the laughing mood, but I, like the broken-hearted and distressed comedian on the stage, was playing a part, and, in a greater sense than theirs, my "living" depended upon my success in acting the character well.

At one point in the road my comrade had dismounted for awhile, and kindly gave me the bridle-rein to hold. I was then in possession of the horse, he was afoot, his gun standing by a fence-corner, and himself on the other side of the fence. This was a pretty good chance for a horse-race with the other fellow, who was still mounted, but he had the advantage of holding a carbine and a belt full of pistols, while I was unarmed. I wasn't afraid of his guns. I took in the situation at once, and would like very much to be able give the reader a thrilling account of a race inside the Rebel lines, but the hard facts are—I was afraid to undertake it. I had discovered at the foot of the hill, near a stream of water, in the direction in which we were going, the smoke of a camp, and probably a road guard was over the little bridge.