“Can you swim, young massa?” he inquired, turning to Frank.

“Yes, like a duck,” was the reply.

“I’s mighty glad to h’ar it,” said Pomp, “’cause den you’re safe.  But I’s been mighty oneasy ’bout it, ’cause, if you can’t swim, you’re kotched, shore.  Now,” he continued, “I must leave you here, ’cause I don’t want to let any one know dat I’s been away from de plantation.  You must cross dis creek, and foller dat road,” pointing to a narrow, well-beaten bridle-path on the opposite bank, “an’ dat will lead you straight to de Red Ribber.  You must keep a good watch, now, ’cause you’ll h’ar something ’fore long dat’ll make you wish you had nebber been born.  I’s heered it often, an’ I knows what it is.  Good-by; an’ de Lor’ bress an’ protect you;” and, before Frank could speak, Pomp had disappeared.

Alone!  The young hero had never before comprehended the full meaning of that single word, as he did now.  Alone, in an almost unbroken forest, which was filled with enemies, who were thirsting for his blood; with no one to whom he could go for advice or assistance.  Is it to be wondered that he felt lonely and discouraged?

He looked back to the scenes through which he had passed:  the fight; his capture; the long, weary march, under a burning sun; his treatment in the prison, the escape, and the pursuit; the hand-to-hand struggle in the woods; all came up vividly before him, and he wondered how he had escaped unhurt; and, then, what had the future in store for him?  The warning of the faithful Pomp was still ringing in his ears, and a dread of impending evil, which he could not shake off, continually pressed upon him.  For the first time since his escape, Frank was completely unnerved.  Seating himself on the ground, he covered his face with his hands, and cried like a child.

But this burst of weakness did not continue long, for he did not forget that he was still in danger.  Hastily dashing the tears from his eyes, he rose to his feet, and prepared to cross the stream.  Holding his rifle and ammunition above his head with one hand, he swam with the other, reached the opposite bank in safety, and followed the path into the swamp.  A mile further on, he came to another stream, and was making preparations to cross it, when he was startled by a voice, which sounded from the opposite bank: 

“Who goesh dere?”

Instead of replying to the challenge, Frank sprang behind a tree, and, looking across the stream, discovered a tall, powerfully-built man, dressed in “butternut” clothes, holding his rifle in the hollow of his arm.  In an instant Frank’s gun was at his shoulder, and his finger was already pressing the trigger, when the man exclaimed: 

“What for you shoot?  I be a friend.”

Frank, although fearful of treachery, lowered his gun, and the Dutchman, moving out of the bushes, leaned on his rifle, and inquired: 

“Where you go?  I guess you been a gun-boat feller; ain’t it?”