, is an enemy, what hope is there? O, my
father!"

"Do not despair!" answered Penn, as cheerfully as he could. "Something
may be done. Stackridge and his friends may have escaped. I will go and
see if I can hear any thing of them. Have faith in our heavenly Father,
my poor girl! be patient! be strong! All, I am sure, will yet be well."

"But you too are in danger! You must not go!" she exclaimed,
instinctively detaining him.

"I am in greater danger here, perhaps, than elsewhere."

"True, true! Go to your negro friends in the mountain--there is yet
time! go!" and she hurriedly pushed him from her.

"When I find that nothing can be done for thy father, then I will return
to Pomp and Cudjo--not before."

And he glided out of the back door just as Salina entered from the
street.

He left the horse where he had tied him, and hastened on foot to
Stackridge's house.

He approached with great caution. There was a light burning in the
house, as on other summer evenings at that hour. The negroes--for
Stackridge was a slaveholder--had retired to their quarters. There were
no indications of any disturbance having taken place. Penn reconnoitred
carefully, and, perceiving no one astir about the premises, advanced
towards the door.

"Halt!" shouted a voice of authority.

And immediately two men jumped out from the well-curb, within which they
had been concealed. Others at the same time rushed to the spot from dark
corners, where they had lain in wait. Almost in an instant, and before
he could recover from his astonishment, Penn found himself surrounded.

"You are our prisoner, Mr. Stackridge!" And half a dozen bayonets
converged at the focus of his breast.

The young man comprehended the situation in a moment. Stackridge had not
been arrested; he was absent from home; these ambushed soldiers had been
awaiting his return; and they had mistaken the schoolmaster for the
farmer.

The night was just light enough to enable them to recognize the coat and
hat which had been Stackridge's, and which Penn still wore as a
disguise. Features they could not discern so easily. The prisoner made
no resistance, for that would have been useless; no outcry, for that
would have revealed to them their mistake. He submitted without a word;
and they marched him away, just as his supposed wife and children flew
to the door, calling frantically, "Father! father!" and lamenting his
misfortune.

By proclaiming his own identity, the prisoner