my seat in it. Pompey, the free black coachman,
wore his Sabbath coat and glossy hat:
for was I not going to take out the Hon.
Abiram Green for his first drive? The horses
were in high condition; they tossed their
heads gaily, and displayed plenty of action as
we drove swiftly off. We were soon clear of
Morgan Town: soon at the Buck’s Leap. A
horseman, keeping as much among the trees as
possible, darted by us here, and vanished in the
forest. Surely, the half-breed again!

He had his hat slouched over his eyes and
never turned his face, but I recognised him as
he shot by. In half an hour we were at the Holt.
Mr. Clay came from the farm-yard to greet me;
his wife and daughters bustled to the door. The
Hon. Abiram Green was quite ready. Down he
came, muffled up to a needless extent, and leaning
heavily on the arms of two negro servants. I
could hardly catch a glimpse of his face, so
enveloped was he in shawls and cloaks.

“We will amend this to-morrow,” said I to
myself, with a smile.

To-morrow! A few civil speeches, a good deal
of anxiety on Miss Clay’s part that the invalid
was properly propped up with pillows and
cushions, and we drove off at a gentle pace.
The whole Quaker household waved their hands
and handkerchiefs as a parting salute.

“Drive slowly and carefully, Pompey!”

The convalescent at my side gave an involuntary
groan. As we passed through the forest, I
happened to hear the cracking of a stick, and
to look quickly to one side. From among the
bushes was protruded a human head; I recognised
the long black elf-locks, the sinister looking
eyes, the coppery complexion. The Indian
man-hunter again!

Quick as light, the vision was gone. A minute
after, I heard the trampling of a horse receding
from the spot. Poor Mr. Green at my side
winced, as if in pain.

“My dear sir,” said I, “I fear the motion is
inconvenient to you. Pompey, drive——”

I was going to say, drive still more slowly;
but Mr. Green pulled me back into my seat
with a vivacity that surprised me.

“I beg your pardon,” said the sick man, “I
enjoy the pace above all things.”

We were now out of the lanes, and bowling
along the broad high road to Shawnee
Ford. Four miles off was the river which
formed the boundary between Virginia and the
Free State of Pennsylvania. I had a professional
visit to pay very near to the ford. We
rolled pleasantly along. But I did not derive
the entertainment I had expected, from Mr.
Green’s conversation. He was silent and
restless. Twice he thrust his head out of the
window, in spite of my warnings not to incur
the risk of catching cold. He answered me
impatiently, almost snappishly.

“Doctor,” said he, “how far are we from the
river now?”

“Three miles and a half,” I said.

“Those white houses on the hill, then, are in
Pennsylvania?”

I answered in the affirmative.

Five minutes after, he seemed to listen
attentively, and suddenly said:

“Do pray tell the coachman to go faster!
Please do!”

Very reluctantly I complied. Pompey quickened
the pace of the powerful horses.

“Ah!” said this odd invalid, with a sigh of
satisfaction. Soon after he exclaimed, that he
“heard horses galloping;” and he would thrust
his head out of the window, and look back
along the road. He uttered a loud exclamation.
I, too, looked out. One, two, three, horsemen
were advancing at furious speed, and evidently
following us. They were armed. One of them
led two hounds in a leash—blood-hounds.

The man-hunters!

Instantly the Hon. Abiram Green dropped
back into his seat; his wrappings and shawls
fell as if by magic to the bottom of the carriage.
A young, active, and intelligent man of Spanish
complexion, and with glittering black eyes full
of resolve and fire, was by my side, in the place
of the Hon. Abiram Green.

“Dr. Mylner,” he cried, “I can carry on the
deception no longer. I am Cato Hammond.
Those men are on my trail.”

I sat stunned and helpless. The metamorphosis
took away my breath. A loud shout
came on the wind; Pompey checked the horses,
and turned round his head to look back. Up
sprang the fugitive, dashed down the glass of
the front window, and confronted the coachman.
There was a revolver in his hand. He had
drawn it from his breast.

“Push on, my friend,” he cried, in a
commanding tone; “I am flying for my life from
those fiends behind. Drive for life and death to
the ford! Dash on to Pennsylvanian ground.
You are a negro. You should help an escaped
slave. On!”

This command, enforced by the sight of the
pistol, produced its effect. Pompey flogged the
horses; the spirited brutes plunged forward,
whirling the carriage like a feather up and down
the slopes at a mad gallop. Cato took a long
look from the window at the pursuing riders,
and said, in a low deep voice, “You know my
story. I am sorry to involve you in trouble,
but my disguise is useless now. I must go on.
Once at Union Town, in a free state, I shall be
safe, and can rejoin my wife on British ground.
You are an Englishman, and can feel for a slave
escaping from unjust bondage. I will not be
taken alive!”

I fully believed him. His firm lips, his
frowning brow, and sparkling eye, confirmed his
words. Pompey obeyed his orders, lashing,
whipping, and jerking the reins, until the horses
were stretching out at their utmost speed. It
was a terrible race. I could see when I looked
back, the negro-hunters spurring and flogging
their steeds. Their yells and imprecations
were horribly distinct. Once they were clearly
gaining upon us. The river was in sight.
Across it, lay free soil and comparative safety.
Safety for Cato Hammond; but what for me?