brought him, said,--

"Do you know, it mortifies me that you don't hate us as we hate you? You
kill us as Agassiz kills a fly,--because you love us."

"Of course we do. The North is being crucified for love of the South."

"If you love us so, why don't you let us go?" asked the Judge, rather
curtly.

"For that very reason,--because we love you. If we let you go, with
slavery, and your notions of 'empire,' you'd run straight to barbarism
and the Devil."

"We'd take the risk of that. But let me tell you, if you are going to
Mr. Davis with any such ideas, you might as well turn back at once. He
can make peace on no other basis than Independence. Recognition must be
the beginning, middle, and ending of all negotiations. Our people will
accept peace on no other terms."

"I think you are wrong there," said the Colonel. "When I was here a year
ago, I met many of your leading men, and they all assured me they wanted
peace and reunion, even at the sacrifice of slavery. Within a week, a
man you venerate and love has met me at Baltimore, and besought me to
come here, and offer Mr. Davis peace on such conditions."

"That may be. Some of our old men, who are weak in the knees, may want
peace on any terms; but the Southern people will not have it without
Independence. Mr. Davis knows them, and you will find he will insist
upon that. Concede that, and we'll not quarrel about minor matters."

"We'll not quarrel at all. But it's sundown, and time we were 'on to
Richmond.'"

"That's the 'Tribune' cry," said the Captain, rising; "and I hurrah for
the 'Tribune,' for it's honest, and--I want my supper."

We all laughed, and the Judge ordered the horses. As we were about to
start, I said to him,--

"You've forgotten our parole."

"Oh, never mind that. We'll attend to that at Richmond."

Stepping into his carriage, and unfurling the flag of truce, he then led
the way, by a "short cut," across the cornfield which divided the
mansion from the high-road. We followed in an ambulance drawn by a pair
of mules, our shadow--Mr. Javins--sitting between us and the twilight,
and Jack, a "likely darky," almost the sole survivor of his master's
twelve hundred slaves, ("De ress all stole, Massa,--stole by you
Yankees,") occupying the front-seat, and with a stout whip "working our
passage" to Richmond.

Much that was amusing and interesting occurred during our three-hours'
journey, but regard for our word forbids my relating it. Suffice it