his own county, but proceeded in their
examination.

They requested a narrative of my journey all the way through from
Kentucky. This I gave very easily, as long as it was on ground that
was not accessible to them; but it sorely puzzled me to account for
the time I had been on the railroad, and for the last night, which I
spent in the woods. I had to _invent_ families with whom I
stayed--tell the number of children and servants at each, and all the
particulars. This was rather perilous, as many of my auditors knew all
the country around which I was thus fancifully populating; but I had
no alternative. I might have refused to answer at all, but this would
have been construed into positive proof of guilt--at least as good as
a _mob_ would have required. Besides, I still had a faint hope that
they might be induced to release me, and allow me to continue my
journey. As it was, my assurance puzzled them somewhat, and they held
numerous private consultations.

But while they were thus deliberating over my case, and could only
agree that it needed further investigation, a man, riding a horse
covered with foam, dashed up to the door. He came from Ringgold, and
brought the news that part of the bridge-burners had been captured,
and that they had at first pretended to be _citizens of Kentucky, from
Fleming county_,--but, on finding that this did not procure their
release, they confessed that they were Ohio soldiers, sent out to burn
the bridges on the Georgia State Road.

The remarkable coincidence of their first story with the one I had
been trying so hard to make the rebels believe, produced a marked
change in their conduct toward me. They at once adjourned to another
room, and, after a brief consultation, agreed to commit me to jail to
await further developments.

The little major was my escort. He first purloined my money, then took
me to the county jail and handed me over to the jailor. This personage
took my penknife and other little articles,--then led me up
stairs,--unfastened the door of a cage of crossing iron bars, in which
was one poor fellow--a Union man, as I afterward found--and bade me
enter. My reflections could not have been more gloomy if the
celebrated inscription, _Dante_, placed over the gates of hell, had
been written above the massive iron door.

"All hope abandon, ye who enter here."

My feelings were terrible when the jailor turned the key in the lock,
secured the heavy iron bar that c