sulting the little
friendly compass which Oriana had given him, he pushed on briskly,
turning always to the right or left, as the smoke, circling from some
early housewife's kitchen, betrayed the dangerous neighborhood of a
human habitation.

Crossing a rivulet, he dismounted, and filled a small leathern bottle
that he carried with him, his good steed and himself meanwhile
satisfying their thirst from the cool wave. His appetite, freshened by
exercise, caused him to remember a package which Oriana's forethought
had provided for him on the preceding afternoon. He drew it from, his
pocket, and while his steed clipped the tender herbage from the
streamlet's bank, he made an excellent breakfast of the corn bread and
bacon, and other substantial edibles, which his kind friend had
bountifully supplied. Man and horse thus refreshed, he remounted, and
rode forward at a gallant pace, the strong animal he bestrode seeming as
yet to show no signs of fatigue.

The rain was now falling in torrents, a propitious circumstance, since
it lessened the probabilities of his encountering the neighboring
inhabitants, most of whom must have sought shelter from the pelting
storm. He occasionally came up with a trudging negro, sometimes a group
of three or four, who answered timidly whenever he accosted them, and
glanced at him askance, but yet gave the information he requested. Once,
indeed, he could discern a troop of cavalry plashing along at same
distance through the muddy road, but he screened himself in a cornfield,
and was unobserved. His watch had been injured in the battle, and he had
no means, except conjecture, of judging of the hour; but by the flagging
pace of his horse, and his own fatigue, he knew that he must have been
many hours in the saddle. Surely the Potomac must be at hand! Yet there
was no sign of it, and over interminable hill and dale, through
corn-fields, and over patches of woodland and meadow, the weary steed
was urged on, slipping and sliding in the saturated soil. What was that
sound which caused his horse to prick up his ears and quicken his pace
with the instinct of danger? He heard it himself distinctly. It was the
baying of a bloodhound.

"They are on my track!" muttered Harold; "and unless the river is at
hand, I am lost. Forward, sir! forward, good fellow!" he shouted
cheerily to his horse, and the noble animal, snorting and tossing his
silken mane, answered with an effort, and broke into a gallop.

Down