At length his eyes rolling from side to side focused themselves on a low opening near the foot of his shakedown bed.  Beyond this opening, and at some little distance, he saw a sunbonneted woman of a plump and comfortable presence.  She was leaning against a tub which rested on a rude bench.  At her back was another bark shanty similar to the one that sheltered himself, while on either hand a shoreless expanse of water danced and sparkled under the rays of the newly risen sun.  As his eyes slowly took in the scene, Yancy’s astonishment mounted higher and higher.  The lady’s sunbonnet quite hid her face, but he saw that she was smoking a cob-pipe.

He was still staring at her, when the lank figure of a man emerged from the other shanty.  This man wore a cotton shirt and patched butternut trousers; he way hatless and shoeless, and his hair stood out from his head in a great flaming shock.  He, too, was smoking a cob-pipe.  Suddenly the man put out a long arm which found its way about the lady’s waist, an attention that culminated in a vigorous embrace.  Then releasing her, he squared his shoulders, took a long breath, beat his chest with the flat of his hands and uttered a cheerful whoop.  The embrace, the deep breath, and the whoop constituted Mr. Cavendish’s morning devotions, and were expressive of a spirit of thankfulness to the risen sun, his general satisfaction with the course of Providence, and his homage to the lady of his choice.

Swinging about on his heel, Cavcndish passed beyond Yancy’s range of vision.  Again the latter attempted to lift himself on his elbow, but sky and water changed places before his eyes and he dropped down on his pillow with a stifled sigh.  He seemed to be slipping back into the black night from which he had just emerged.  Again he was at Scratch Hill, again Dave Blount was seeking to steal his nevvy—­incidents of the trial and flight recurred to him—­all was confused, feverish, without sequence.

Suddenly a shadow fell obliquely across the foot of his narrow bed, and Cavendish, bending his long body somewhat, thrust his head in at the opening.  He found himself looking into a pair of eyes that for the first time in many a long day held the light of consciousness.

“How are you, stranger?” he demanded, in a soft drawl.

“Where am I?” the words were a whisper on Yancy’s bearded lips.

“Well, sir, you are in the Tennessee River fo’ certain; my wife will make admiration when she hears you speak.  Polly! you jest step here.”

But Polly had heard Cavendish speak, and the murmur of Yancy’s voice in reply.  Now her head appeared beside her husband’s, and Yancy saw that she was rosy and smiling, and that her claim to good looks was something that could not well be denied.

“La, you are some better, ain’t you, sir?” she cried, smiling down on him

“How did I get here, and where’s my nevvy ?” questioned Yancy anxiously.