"But how can I go on, when I's got no money?"
"They know of a way to send such people as you without money. You'll get with those over there who will see you safe; never fear."
"I never can tell you," she said, in relating her story, "how strange I felt about sich good news as this, and wondered if it could be true. I jus' trimbled like a popple leaf all the evenin'. Master and missus was over in the city to a lecture on Fernology, and didn't get back till twelve o'clock. I kep' the chillen awake later'n common, so they'd sleep sounder. Then I tied my clothes up in a tight bundle, an' had my shoes an' hat whar I'd lay han's on 'em, an' put out the light. I was snorin', when missus looked in an' said, 'All's asleep—all right;' an' I waited till the clock struck one, an' all still. I crep' sof'ly out on the street, and down to the root, an' waited for a whistle. The clock struck two. O, how long! Will that man come? Chillen may cry, an' missus fin' me gone. Had I better wait till it's three o'clock? May be he can't come. He said, if any thing happen he couldn't come to-night, I mus' go back, an' try another night. An' 'bout as I began to think I better go back come the whistle. I stepped in, an' we went over; but the clock struck three before we got half across, an' he was mighty fear'd he couldn't get back afore daybreak."
News reached us during the day that a woman crossed the river early, and was so near it as to be dangerous for a hiding-place; and it fell to my lot to see her in a safe place as soon as the darkness of night would shield us from being detected by Champlin and his aids, who were already seen at street corners. I took a black Quaker bonnet and a drab shawl and a plain dress-skirt in a market-basket, with which to disguise our fugitive.
I found her in a dark room, where I fixed her up for a walk; and she told me of her loss of the hundred dollars, but I told her all would be well without it. I instructed her to take my arm as we went, and take good care to limp all the way, for we should pass plenty of Kentuckians. Thickly veiled, we walked half a mile, turning short corners to elude watchers, if any, from our starting-point. As we went up Central Avenue to Longworth, we passed through a crowd, one of whom said:
"I'm going to line my pockets to-night. Thar's five hundred dollars reward out."
Said another, in a low tone, "When did she cross?"
"Last night some time, they say."
My Quaker sister, limping at my side, was trembling, I sensibly felt, as she hung upon my arm, as we listened to these remarks from her pursuers. I took her to a very intelligent colored family on Longworth Street, who were well known to us as true friends.
Although I had passed her pursuers without fear, yet when Levi Coffin informed me that Ruffin, the greatest slave-hunter in the city, had just moved next door to Burgess, where I left Maria, my fears were almost equal to Maria's. "Laura, thou hast left thy fugitive with a good family, but in a poor place," said our venerable friend. "But wait until to-morrow evening, when thou hadst better give her another move, as I know they will use all possible care." The following evening Levi and friend Hughes were to be on Central Avenue near Longworth Street, and as I came out with my Quaker woman, they were to walk half a block ahead and turn on Ninth Street to his house, and if sister Catherine's sign appeared on the balcony of the second story, we were to ascend the outside flight of steps, and take her up to the attic in the fourth story.