with stern to the bank, as though prepared for instant departure.  It was securely held in position by a rope, probably looped about a convenient stump, and my eyes were finally able to trace the outlines of the wheel by which it was propelled.  Except for straggling rushes extending to the edge of the water, the space between was vacant, yet sufficiently mantled in darkness to enable one to creep forward unseen.

At first glance I could distinguish no sign of the boatman left in charge, but, even as I lay there, breathless and uncertain, he suddenly revealed his presence by lighting a lantern in the stern.  The illumination was feeble enough, yet sufficient to expose to view the small, unprotected engine aft, and also the fact that all forward of the little cockpit in which it stood, the entire craft was decked over.  The fellow was busily engaged in overhauling the machinery, leaning far forward, his body indistinct, the lantern swinging in one hand, with entire attention devoted to his task.  Occasionally, as he lifted his head for some purpose, the dim radiance fell upon his face, revealing the unmistakable countenance of a mulatto, a fellow of medium size, broad of cheek with unusually full lips, and a fringe of whisker turning gray.  Somehow this revelation that he was a negro, and not a white man, brought with it to me an additional confidence in success.  I inclined my head and whispered in the girl’s ear: 

“You are not to move from here until I call.  This is to be my part of the work, handling that lad.  I am going now.”

“He is colored, is he not, a slave?”

“We can only guess as to that.  But he does not look to me like a hard proposition.  If I can only reach the boat without being seen, the rest will be easy.  Now is the proper time, while he is busy tinkering with the engine.  You will stay here?”

“Yes, of course; I—­I could be of no help.”

She suddenly held out her hand, as though impelled to the action of some swift impulse, and the warm pressure of her fingers meant more than words.  I could not see the expression on her face, yet knew the slender body was trembling nervously.

“Surely you are not afraid?”

“Oh, no; it is not that—­I—­I am all unstrung.  You must not think of me, at all.”

This was far easier said than done, however, for she was more in my mind as I crept forward than the indistinct figure below in the boat.  It was becoming a constant struggle already—­indeed, had been from the first—­to hold her for what I actually knew her to be—­negress, a slave, desperately seeking to escape from her master.  The soft, refined voice, the choice use of language, the purity of her thought and expression, the girlish face as I had seen it under the light, all combined to continually blind me to the real truth.  I could not even force myself to act toward her from any standpoint other than that of equality, or regard her as in any way removed from my most courteous consideration.  I think it was equally hard for her to adapt her conduct to these new conditions.  Accustomed all her life to respect, to admiration, to the courtesy of men, she could not stoop to the spirit of servitude.  It was this effort to humble herself, to compel remembrance, which caused her to speak of herself so often as a slave.