“But we must not show ourselves,” said I.

“Don’t you fret about dat; I don’t want nobody to see me nudda; des’ you follow me.”

Nick left the road, I following.  We went northeast for half a mile, then northwest for a mile or more, and found ourselves in the road again.

“Now we’s done got aroun’ ’em,” said Nick; “we’s done got aroun’ de fust ones; we’s done got aroun’ ’em; dis is twicet I’s done got aroun’ ’em, ‘en w’en I come back I’s got to git aroun’ ’em agin.”

“How far is it to Young’s Mill, Nick?”

“I ‘spec’ hit’s ‘bout fo’ mile,” said Nick.

We were now within the rebel lines, and my capture might mean death.  We went on, always keeping out of the road.  Nick led the way at a rapid and long stride, and I had difficulty in keeping him in sight.  The night was getting cold, but the walk heated me.  Here and there were dense clumps of small trees; at the little watercourses there was larger growth.  The roar of the sea was heard no longer.  It must have been about midnight.

We came upon swampy ground; just beyond it a road crossed ours.

“Stop a little, Nick,” said I.

Nick came to a halt, and we talked in low tones; we could see a hundred yards in every direction.

“Where does that road go?” I asked.

“Dat road,” said Nick, pointing to the left; “hit goes to ole Young’s Mill.”

“How far is old Young’s Mill?”

“I dunno ezackly; I reckon ‘bout fo’ mile.”

“Where does the right-hand lead?”

“Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman’s,” said Nick; “en’ at Mis Cheeseman’s dey is calvry, on’ at ole Young’s Mill dey is calvry, but dey is on de yudda side o’ de creek.”

“How far is it to Mrs. Cheeseman’s?”

“I dunno ezackly; I reckon ‘bout fo’ mile.”

We went on.  The ground was again swampy.  We came to a road running almost west; a church stood on the other side of the road.

“Dat’s Danby Chu’ch,” said Nick, “en’ dat road hit goes to Worrick.”

“And where does the right-hand lead?”

“Hit goes to Mis Cheeseman’s,” said Nick.

“And where is Young’s Mill?” I asked.

“Hit’s right on dis same road we’s on, en not fur off, nudda.”

We had now almost reached my first objective.  I knew that Nick was telling me the truth, in the main, for the plan of the map was still before my mind’s eye.

“Can we get around Young’s Mill without being seen?” I asked.

“Dey’s a picket-line dis side,” said Nick.

“How far this side?”

“‘Bout a quauta’ en’ a ha’f a quanta.’”

“How near can we get to the picket-line?”

“We kin git mos’ up to ’em, caze dey’s got de trees cut down.”

“The trees cut down in their front?”

“Yassa; dey’s got mos’ all de trees out down, so dey is.”

“And we can get to this edge of the foiled timber?”