of evil spirits was at his heels, and
Lemon returned to his comrade very much disappointed and chagrined. "Now
they are sure to overtake us," said he, "we shall be prisoners again
before night!"

"Never fear," was the reply of his cooler companion; "as long as there
is a swamp in the neighborhood, we'll lead them a lively dance."

So the friends gathered up their belongings, and in a few minutes put a
considerable distance between themselves and their resting-place of the
preceding night. Finally they concealed themselves in a swamp about a
mile distant. A road bordered the margin of their sanctuary so closely,
that they distinctly overheard a conversation between three ladies who
passed. The chasing of a negro boy by a Yankee was the topic of their
discourse.

This information made our friends more cautious, and it is well they
were so, for, towards evening, several mounted men armed with guns were
seen by them upon the main road leading to Aiken; their evident purpose
being to intercept the fugitives, of whose presence in their
neighborhood the boy had made report.

Forewarned was forearmed, and our hero and his companion determined to
give the enemy a wide berth. Again, therefore, plunging into the
recesses of a neighboring swamp, they went quietly to sleep, and slept
until midnight, when Glazier awoke to see thousands of stars glittering
through the spectral branches of the pines, and away off toward the
western horizon, a flood of silvery effulgence from the waning moon.

Entranced by the beauty of the scene, he awoke his comrade, and all
around being buried in profound silence, they proceeded on their way. It
was not long before they found themselves upon the outskirts of the
village of Aiken, and no practicable path upon either side presenting
itself, but one resource remained, namely, to steal cautiously through,
although this involved the imminent risk of discovery. On, therefore,
they walked until they came to the border of the village. They found it
dumb with sleep. Not a sound disturbed the silence. The very dogs, their
usually sleepless foes, appeared for once to have become wearied and
gone to rest.

There is something solemn about a sleeping town. The solitude of the
swamp and wood is solemn; but the ghostly stillness of a town, where all
its inhabitants lie buried in sleep, and no sign or sound proclaims the
presence of life in man or beast, is of so weird a character as to
produce a sensation of