were visited, in their place of
concealment, by a snow-storm. Their suffering from cold now
became so intolerable that they could not remain at rest,
and they resumed their route about four o'clock. Two hours
they went, and then, to their complete discouragement, found
themselves back again at their starting-point, and cold,
wet, tired, and hungry into the bargain.

As they stood there, expressing in very plain language their
opinion of Dame Fortune, a covered cart approached. Taking
it for granted that the driver was a negro, they hailed him;
but to their dismay found that they had halted a white man.

There was but one thing to do. They told him that they were
Confederate scouts, and asked him for information about the
Yankee outposts. A short conference ensued, which ended in
their discovering that they were talking to a man of strong
Union sympathies, and as likely to befriend them as the
negroes. This was a hopeful discovery. They now freely told
him who they really were, and in return received valuable
information as to roads, being told in addition where they
could find a negro family who would give them food.

"If you can keep out of the way of rebel scouts for
twenty-four hours more," he continued, "you will very likely
come across some of your own troops. But you are on very
dangerous ground. Here is the scouting-place of both armies,
and guerillas and bushwackers are everywhere."

Thanking him, and with hearts filled with new hope, the
wanderers started forward. At midnight they reached the
negro cabin to which they had been directed, where, to their
great relief, they obtained a substantial meal of
corn-bread, pork, and rye coffee, and, what was quite as
acceptable, a warming from a bright fire. The friendly black
warned them, as their late informant had done, of the danger
of the ground they had yet to traverse.

These warnings caused them to proceed very cautiously, after
leaving the hospitable cabin of their sable entertainer. But
they had not gone far before they met an unexpected and
vexatious obstacle, a river or creek, the Diascon, as the
negroes named it. They crossed it at length, but not without
great trouble and serious loss of time.

It was now the sixth night since their escape. Hitherto
Captain Rowan had been a model of strength, perseverance,
and judgment. Now these qualities seemed suddenly to leave
him. The terrible strain, mental and physical, to which they
had been exposed, and