deep sleep of exhaustion.  Jack aroused them with the greatest difficulty, and found it still harder to make them understand that, with courage and resolution, they would be back in their own lines by daylight.  When this became clear to them they were as eager and energetic as their rescuer.  The men were to remain near the blockhouse, but not in it, until Jack returned for the negro, and then under the lad’s guidance they could find their way to the Union outposts.  Just as this was decided, a blood-curdling baying of bloodhounds echoed across the pond from the distant cabin.  Jack trembled, his mind at once on Dick, so near and yet so far from him now, in this new danger.  There was not a moment to be lost.  Perhaps even now all the night’s hard-won victories were to be turned to worse than defeat—­prison, death; for the liberation of slaves was at that time punishable by hanging in the rebel military code.

“Courage,” he said to himself, grimly; “courage, a dog’s no worse than a man.  We’ve overcome them to-night, we ought to be able to tackle the dogs.”  This new danger changed his plan slightly.  Instead of leaving all the men, he took one of the rescued four, Tom Denby by name, with him, and set out for the water.  But here another check met him.  He suddenly recalled that the guard at the blockhouse had been scattered along the shore to watch the debouch from the swamp.  This enforced a wide detour, bringing him out in the rear of the boat and nearer the point where Moccasin Creek emptied into the pond.  They reached it finally, and skirting along the shore kept a keen eye on the water for the boat.  They had skurried along half-way back toward the bluff, listening for a sound on the water and peering into the black surface, when Denby suddenly touched Jack’s arm.

“There’s a horse or cow standing in the water yonder.  I’ve seen it move; there, look!”

Yes, outlined against the low horizon, a monstrous shape could be plainly seen.  The yelp of the hounds suddenly broke through the air back of them toward the creek.  The monstrous figure started, moved heavily forward, then seemed as if coming toward them.  Both waited, wondering, curious, terrified.  It was within a rod of them, staggering, gasping.

“Oh, God help us!  I can go no farther; better be taken than both drown together.”

Jack could hardly repress a cry: 

“Jones—­Dick!  Is it you?”

But whoever it was or whatever it was had no speech to answer this eager inquiry.  They would have sunk in the shallow water if Jack and Denby had not caught them.  Jack had food with him, and, better than all, the bottle of sorghum whisky.  With this restorative, both were soon able to sit upon the ground and eat.  Jack left Denby to feed them, while he went in search of the boat.  He found it just where he had left it, and in a few minutes, at the head of his little band, he was back at the blockhouse.  The food and Jack’s hastily told news had restored Dick to something like his old friskiness.