sed no other
bait that would have lured me so quickly from out the Slough of Despond
into which I had fallen.

There was no hope in my heart, however sanguine he appeared, that I
could regain possession of my horse. The most I dared look forward to
was that events might so shape themselves as to make it possible for us
to escape from this town into which we had voluntarily come, and yet I
was such a simple that I failed of understanding it was Pierre Laurens
who would get us out of the hobble, if indeed we ever did get out; but I
followed him meekly as he led the way toward the Pigeon Quarter.

Uncle 'Rasmus was seated by the window; we could see his wrinkled black
face through the dirty glass, and surely he had every appearance of
being near to death as he sat there huddled up in a little ball, so to
speak, wrapped in his blanket although the day was unusually warm.

"Are you really sick, Uncle?" I asked, hurrying into the hovel with the
fear that I should find there additional trouble.

"I'se mighty bad, honey, mighty bad," the old man replied with an odd
twinkle in his eyes. "I 'spects I'se 'bleeged ter stay right here, wid
neber a chance ob gettin' back to de ole plantation, kase I'se got de
misery in my back, my head, an' my legs till I'se des de same as a
wuffless ole cripple."

"That's right, Uncle 'Rasmus," Pierre said cheerily. "You are a
promising looking old invalid, and I guarantee that if any of these
red-coated gentry have a suspicion you may be playing a part, one
glimpse of that face of yours will convince them you are nigh to death."

"I'se bin reckonin' on des dat same ting, an' while de ole nigger am so
po'ly dese yere gen'men who's in de army carn' grudge my seein' you
chillun now an' den."

"You are likely to see a good deal of us, Uncle 'Rasmus," I said grimly,
now understanding that the old negro was simply playing his part as had
been agreed upon. "We had the ill luck to come across Horry Sims; Saul
lost his temper, and let the fellow know we were acquainted with what he
had been about."

"Lan' ob massy, chillun, lan' ob massy! Hab you bin rubbin' up agin dat
Tory sneak?"

"It's worse than that, Uncle 'Rasmus," Pierre said with a smile. "In
order to save our own skins we have been forced to make him a prisoner,
and can stay in York Town only so long as it is possible to keep him out
of sight. We count on bringing him here, if there's a living show for
it, 'twixt now and midnight."

"