If I could but know that he had seen me, my plan surely would be to lie still.

Yes, certainly, to lie still ... if these riders were rebels.

But to lie still if my companion was a friend to the rebels?  If he was one of theirs, should I lie still?

No; certainly not, unless I preferred being taken to being shot at.

If the horsemen were Union troops, what then?  Why, in that case, my unknown friend must be a rebel; and if I should decide to let the troops pass, I should be left unarmed, with a rebel in two feet of me.

Yet, if the cavalry were our men, and the fugitive a rebel, still the question remained whether he had seen me.

It seemed impossible for him not to see me.  Could he think I was a log?  Certainly not; there was no reason for a log to be in such a place; there were no trees large enough, and near enough to justify the existence of a log in this place.

All these thoughts, and more also, passed through my mind while the horsemen moved ten paces; and before they had moved ten paces more, I had come to a decision.

I had decided to lie still.

There could be but one hope:  if I should run, I could not get away.  I would lie still.  If the unknown should prove to be a friend, my case might be better than before; if he should prove to be an enemy, I must act prudently and try to befool him.  I must discover his intentions before making mine known.  He, also, must be in a great quandary.

The horsemen passed.  They passed so near that I could have told whether they were from the North or the South by their voices, but they did not speak.

There was not enough light for me to see their uniforms, and, indeed, I did not look at them, but instinctively kept my face to the ground.

The horsemen passed on up the road toward Young’s Mill.

Now there was silence.  I yet lay motionless.  So did my companion.  I was right in one thing; he knew of my presence, else he would now rise and go his way.  He knew of my presence, yet he did not speak; what was the matter with him?

But why did not I speak?  I concluded that he was fearing me, just as I was fearing him.

But why should he fear me, when, he could not doubt that I was hiding from the same persons whom he had shunned to meet?

But I was there first; he had not known that I was there; his hiding in a fence corner was deliberate, in order to escape the observation of the horsemen; his hiding in this particular fence corner was an accident.

Who is he?  What is he thinking about, that he doesn’t do something?  He has no reason to fear me.

But fear has no reason.  If he is overcome with fear, he dreads everything.  He has not recovered from the fright the horsemen gave him.

But why do I not speak?  Am I so overcome with fear that I cannot speak to a man who flees and hides?  I will speak to him—­