ovided for me at my
grandmother's. I could not imagine how it was possible to hide me in her
house, every nook and corner of which was known to the Flint family. They
told me to wait and see. We were rowed ashore, and went boldly through the
streets, to my grandmother's. I wore my sailor's clothes, and had blackened
my face with charcoal. I passed several people whom I knew. The father of
my children came so near that I brushed against his arm; but he had no idea
who it was.

"You must make the most of this walk," said my friend Peter, "for you may
not have another very soon."

I thought his voice sounded sad. It was kind of him to conceal from me what
a dismal hole was to be my home for a long, long time.

XXI. The Loophole Of Retreat.

A small shed had been added to my grandmother's house years ago. Some
boards were laid across the joists at the top, and between these boards and
the roof was a very small garret, never occupied by any thing but rats and
mice. It was a pent roof, covered with nothing but shingles, according to
the southern custom for such buildings. The garret was only nine feet long
and seven wide. The highest part was three feet high, and sloped down
abruptly to the loose board floor. There was no admission for either light
or air. My uncle Phillip, who was a carpenter, had very skilfully made a
concealed trap-door, which communicated with the storeroom. He had been
doing this while I was waiting in the swamp. The storeroom opened upon a
piazza. To this hole I was conveyed as soon as I entered the house. The air
was stifling; the darkness total. A bed had been spread on the floor. I
could sleep quite comfortably on one side; but the slope was so sudden that
I could not turn on my other without hitting the roof. The rats and mice
ran over my bed; but I was weary, and I slept such sleep as the wretched
may, when a tempest has passed over them. Morning came. I knew it only by
the noises I heard; for in my small den day and night were all the same. I
suffered for air even more than for light. But I was not comfortless. I
heard the voices of my children. There was joy and there was sadness in the
sound. It made my tears flow. How I longed to speak to them! I was eager to
look on their faces; but there was no hole, no crack, through which I could
peep. This continued darkness was oppressive. It seemed horrible to sit or
lie in a cramped position day after day, without one gleam of light. Yet I
woul