When Frank inquired what was to pay, he was informed that any one who would think of charging a soldier for provisions ought to be tarred and feathered and sent into the Yankee lines.  This was good news to Frank, for, if there had been any thing to pay, he would not have known how to act, as money was a thing he had not seen for many a day.  So, after thanking the ladies for their kindness, and bidding them good-night, he picked up his provisions and started out.

“Now, you man that hunts Union soldiers with blood-hounds,” he exclaimed, as he walked up to his captive, and untied the strap with which his feet were bound, “get up, and lead me to the place where you left your prisoners;” and Frank seized the rebel by the collar, and helped him rather roughly to his feet.

The rebel made no reply, but led the way down the road which ran through the plantation.  Frank followed close behind him, carrying his rifle and provisions in one hand, and his revolver in the other.  At length they came to the fence at the end of the field, and, as he was helping his prisoner over, a voice from the woods called out: 

“Who goes there?”

“Is that your man?” inquired Frank, in a whisper, turning to his prisoner.

“Yes,” answered the rebel, gruffly.

“Then keep your mouth shut, and let me talk to him,” commanded Frank.  Raising his voice, he answered to the hail, “Friend!”

“Is that you, Lieutenant Somers?” inquired the voice.

“Yes,” answered Frank.  “Come here; I’ve got a supply of provisions, and another prisoner.”

“Another Yank, eh!” said the man; and Frank heard him coming through the woods toward him.

“Well, we’ve one less to catch, then.  Where is he?  Let’s have a squint at him.”

“Never mind the prisoner,” exclaimed Frank, “but come and take these provisions; they’re heavy.”

The rebel, who could not discover that any thing was wrong, reached out his hand, and took the traveling-bag from Frank, when the latter suddenly seized him by the collar, and exclaimed, as he pressed the muzzle of his revolver against his head: 

“You’re my prisoner!”

For an instant the rebel appeared utterly dumfounded; then, suddenly recovering himself, he struck up Frank’s arm, and, with a quick movement, tore himself away from his grasp, and drew his Bowie-knife.

“Kill him, Jake! kill him!” shouted the lieutenant, who, of course, was unable to assist his man, as his hands were securely bound behind his back.

But Frank was too quick for him, for, before the rebel could make a thrust with his knife, the sharp report of the revolver echoed through the woods, and the man sank to the ground like a log.

“Now,” exclaimed Frank, turning to his prisoner, “I’ve a good notion to shoot you, also.  But I will try you once more; and I tell you now, once for all, don’t open your head again to-night, unless you are spoken to.  Now, show me where you left your prisoners.”