He certainly proved his familiarity with that labyrinth of sombre streets and alleys.  Selecting a devious course, stooping low beneath the black shadows of walls and fences, he yet set so swift a gait with his confounded long legs it kept me puffing to follow.  But we found clear passage, seeing no one close enough to interfere with our rapid progress, while no challenge sounded, until we crept, silently as possible, around the dilapidated end of the old tobacco shed, and a black figure, scarcely distinguishable in the gloom, suddenly arose, uttering no word, yet with threatening gesture, barring further passage toward the river.

“Virginia,” I gasped, breathless from the hard run.

“Bless de Lawd, Massa Benteen,” returned a darky voice.  “An’ Massa Charlie, as I ’m a sinner.  I tell you, sah, we done ’bout gib you both up fo’ suah.”

“Stop talking just now, Alphonse, and lead along lively,” said De Noyan, with returning authority.  “We can converse later, in surroundings more congenial.”

Another moment and we were in the boat, the Chevalier pushing it clear of the bank, then lightly clambering in over the stern.

“Benteen,” he exclaimed, panting heavily, “I confess I’m about useless from lack of wind. Sacre!  I ’ve been housed so long I am weak as an invalid, yet I can steer the craft if you inform me where ’tis best to go.”

“Up country is our only chance,” I gasped, grasping an oar, vaguely noting a second figure huddled within the bow.  “All the lower water is patrolled by the fleet, but above there are plenty of hiding places.  Lay down to it hard, you black rascals; you are pulling for your lives.”

De Noyan extended his hand toward the east.

“It will be dawn in about an hour,” he said, a tone of earnestness creeping into his soft voice.  “We can never pull against this stiff current so as to get any distance in that time.  This east shore is flat as a board for leagues.  I ’m for heading straight across.  If we gain the west bank within an hour, or even two, the Devil himself would have a hard job to find us.”

“Go on,” I muttered, bending grimly to my task.  “You know this country better than I. When we reach upper waters it will be my turn to guide.”

As I uttered these words, a bit impatiently, there sounded a quick step on the low bank at our right.  A sharp voice cleaved the darkness.

“Halt there!  Halt that boat, or I put a ball through you.”

“Sheer off lively, lads,” I whispered.  “Swing her head out, Chevalier.”

There was a rush of feet down the steep embankment.  Then a second voice questioned eagerly: 

“What was it you saw, Sanchez?”

“Nothing, Senor; I heard voices out yonder.  Listen!  As the saints watch, ’t is the dip of oars.”

“Halt that boat, or we shoot!”

There followed a moment’s painful pause.  An oar in our bow slipped, making an awkward splash in the water. “Caramba! you will not?  Take aim, men—­fire.”