ad time to reach the
desired window, to let it slip once with a resonant bang, and to slip
inside out of sight, before any alarm was raised. But the drowsy or
careless sentinel awoke to a sense of his position just as the second
fugitive turned the first chimney-stack, and challenged with a threat of
shooting. The Marylander knew that the game was up, as far as he was
concerned; if he went on and escaped the bullet, those below would have
seen at what window he entered, and the start was hopelessly short: to
persist would only have insured two recaptures. He certainly did the
wisest thing in retracing his way as speedily as possible. When the
guards came to No. 22, they found its solitary inmate in bed, sleeping
apparently the heavy, stertorous sleep of a deep drinker: an empty
whisky-bottle gave a color of probability to the picture. They could get
nothing out of him then; and, afterwards, he took the line of having
been insensibly overcome by liquor, and so prevented from accompanying
his fellow-prisoner. The authorities could scarcely have believed the
story; but perhaps they wished to keep the escape as quiet as possible;
at any rate the Marylander was not more strictly guarded or severely
treated than before. He took the mishap with wonderful pluck and
good-humor, and spoke rather humorously than wrathfully of the whole
affair. Yet, as far as he knew, he had come back to indefinite
captivity. When he went South with the rest of them on the 20th of May,
no man of the five hundred better deserved freedom.

Some days afterwards we had news of the divine--safe so far, and many
miles away. Certainly, had he possessed his soul in patience a fortnight
or so longer, he would have been forwarded to his desired destination
securely and at the expense of the enemy. Before he reaches it now, he
will have paid away a sheaf of greenbacks, and run the gauntlet of a
frontier blockade, closing in more tightly every hour. North of the
Potomac there is no rest for the sole of his foot. So, many would say,
that the escapade had far better have been deferred. Eight weeks ago I
should have been of that same opinion, but now I doubt--I--doubt. The
prospect outside ought to be very dark, and rife with peril, to induce a
man to resign himself deliberately to another decameron here.[2]

[Footnote 2: Since writing the above, I have met the parson in England.
I am bound to state that he gives rather a different account of the
escapade, and i