resolved to hold him prisoner, would be forced
to the arduous task of carrying him through the dark, down the rough
slopes. It would be strange, he mused complacently, if in the course
of the journey, their vigilance did not relax a little. And a very
little would suffice him! Then, though to all appearance in a drunken
stupor, he sighed. He was unhappily aware that the revenue men would
not be gentle in their efforts to arouse him to consciousness. Whether
they believed him shamming or not, they would use no doubtful
measures. But, whatever might come, he must endure it for the sake of
escape.

[Illustration:
_Clara Kimball Young under the direction of Lewis J. Selznick._
AFTER THE RAID.]

The raiders realized the need of haste, for they must be done with
their work here, and down the steeps of the mountain into the open
road, ere the fugitives should have time to arm themselves, and waylay
the posse from the thickets. So, with due watchfulness of the two
prisoners, the men set about that task of destruction which their duty
required. The fermenters, huge tubs holding the mixture of meal, malt
and water making ready for the still, received first attention. Since
York had fallen before these, the men rolled him roughly to one side,
without arousing him to any sign of consciousness. Stone knew the man
to be shamming, since there had been no show of even incipient
drunkenness before the moment of the raid. He resolved to try a test
at least, for he was alert to the hindrance the limp form would prove
in the descent of the mountain. He thrust the body forward with his
foot, close to one of the great "stands" of the mixture, and bade an
appreciative assistant apply the ax to the slippery-elm hoops that
bound the staves. As the bands fell and the great volume of liquid
gushed forth, the raiders leaped aside from the flood. But York never
stirred. The down-rushing tide fell fairly on him, engulfed him. He
made no movement, no outcry. Even Stone himself was led to a
half-remorseful wonder whether he had been deceived concerning the
fellow's state. Then, after a few seconds, the bald head rose,
glistening from the pool of the "beer." The thin wisps of gray hair
hung in dank strings; the jungle of beard seemed strangely thin; there
was something curiously unlike Ben York in the lineaments. The marshal
guessed that the metamorphosis was wrought by the swirling mess, which
had scrubbed the weazened face almost clean for the fi