ordinarily rough ground, was
compelled to dismount repeatedly.

It was about one o'clock in the morning of Sunday, the 5th of April: we
were then crossing some tilled lands, intersected by frequent narrow
belts of woodland. Our course ran parallel to the mountain-road leading
from Greenland to Petersburg; the former place was then nearly three
miles behind us, and our guide felt certain that we had passed the
outermost pickets. It was very important that we should get housed
before break of day; so we were on the point of breaking into the beaten
track again, and had approached it within fifty yards, when suddenly,
out of the dark hollow on our left, there came a hoarse shout:

"Stop. Who are you? Stop or I'll fire."

Now I have heard a challenge or two in my time, and felt certain at once
that even, a Federal picket would have employed a more regular formula.
The same idea struck Shipley too.

"Come on," he said, "they're only citizens."

So on we went, disregarding a second and third summons in the same
words. We both looked round for the Nevil, but keener eyes would have
sought for him in vain; at the first sound of voices he had plunged into
the dark woods above us, where a footman, knowing the country, might
defy any pursuit. Peace and joy go with him! By remaining he would only
have ruined himself, without profiting us one jot.

Then three revolver-shots were fired in rapid succession. To my question
if he was hit, my guide answered cheerily in the negative; neither of us
guessed that one bullet had struck his mare high up in the neck; though
the wound proved mortal the next day, it was scarcely perceptible, and
bled altogether internally. One of those belts of woodland crossed our
track about two hundred yards ahead; we crashed into this over a gap in
the snake-fence; but the barrier on the further side was high and
intact. Shipley had dismounted, and had nearly made a breach by pulling
down the rails, when, the irregular challenge was repeated directly in
our front, and we made out a group of three dark figures about
thirty-five yards off.

"Give your names, and where you are going, or I'll fire."

"He's very fond of firing," I said in an undertone to Shipley, and then
spoke out aloud. (I saw at once the utter impossibility of escape, even
if we could have found our way back, without quitting our horses, which
I never dreamt of.)

"If you'll come here, I'll tell you all about it."

I could not have a