darkness Calhoun dashed, following his guide. In the shadow of
buildings, through dark alleys, they ran. At last they came to a part of
the city where only a lamp gleamed here and there. They stopped running,
both exhausted, their breath coming in quick gasps.

[Illustration: INTO THE DARKNESS CALHOUN DASHED, FOLLOWING HIS GUIDE.]

"We are safe now," said the guide, "but it was a close shave for you. What
did they arrest you for?"

"To hang me," answered Calhoun, with a shudder. "I am a Confederate
officer."

"I thought you must be some big gun, or old Morton wouldn't have tried to
arrest you in that crowd; but don't worry, you are all right now."

His guide, whose name proved to be Randall, soon came to a house which he
said was his home, "and," he exclaimed, "none of Abe Lincoln's minions
will ever find you here. I have sheltered more than one escaped
Confederate prisoner from that infernal pen out there called Camp Morton.
It should be called Camp Hades."

Calhoun was ushered into the house, and shown a room. "Sleep soundly, and
without fear," said Mr. Randall.

Calhoun took his advice, but before he went to sleep he did not forget to
return thanks for his escape, and he also had a great deal more respect
for the Knights of the Golden Circle than he had had before. The next
morning the papers came out with a full description of Calhoun, telling of
his escape, and saying he was a famous spy. The article ended with the
announcement that so important did the government consider his person that
a reward of one thousand dollars would be paid for his recapture. Calhoun
now knew that his work was done in the North. The only thing that remained
for him was to get out of it as secretly as possible.

Two days afterwards he was conveyed out of the city concealed in a
farmer's wagon. He was passed on from the hands of one true Knight to
another, and at the end of three days he found himself on the banks of the
Ohio, a few miles above Madison. In the darkness of the night he was rowed
over, and his feet once more pressed the soil of his native state. In his
ecstasy he felt like kissing the ground, for was it not the soil of
Kentucky?

At the house of a true Southerner he found refuge. His measure was taken
into Carrolton, where a tailor made him a fine uniform. Purchasing a horse
of the gentleman with whom he stayed, he bade him good-bye, and sprang
into the saddle. The sun had just set, and the whole west glowed with