A yawn might have called down an avalanche of sand. I could have plunged into the river, but I could not have swam against the current; I should have been swept down beyond Bolanyo, to be snatched up at daylight and hanged. And daylight was coming. The rain had ceased, but the air was heavy and I knew that the light would be slow. The yellow river grew distinct, close to the shore, and gradually, but with many a hang-back, it seemed, the light grew strong enough to reveal the walls and the roof of my prison. Overhead the sand was held by streaks of clay, but this support, I saw, must soon give in, for the current was eating fast. Up the stream, only a few feet away, was a whirlpool, where the bank had caved, and just below a strong suck was forming, but here was a slope, and I might climb out over it, though the way was treacherous. I did not hesitate, and struggling, clutching, on my knees, up again, the sand rolling under me, I fought and gained the firm ground above. Not a house was within sight. But I could see the plow on the dome in Bolanyo, miles away; and now it was a vulture, dark-limned against a darker sky. I trod across a gullied field, into the woods, to find a place to lie in hiding until night. I thought of blood-hounds. But the rain, the river and the caving sand were almost a sure protection against their merciless scent. Still I was frightened, and I walked for a long distance in a stream of water, with the old story of a runaway slave fresh in my mind. I could not even guess at the time of day. At the jail they had taken my watch, my penknife, money, everything. In a thick patch of briers I lay down beside a log and slept, and opening my eyes I saw a star. I bore off from the river, walking as fast as I could. I came upon a patch of yams, the southerner's vaunted sweet potato, and fed ravenously on the milky root. I passed numerous negro cabins and dogs barked at me. At daylight I hid again and slept. In the evening of the fourth day I made bold to enter a negro's hut, always the refuge and the asylum of the outcast, and appealed to the generosity of an enormous fellow who reminded me of Washington. I told him I was a fugitive fleeing from the wrath of political enemies, and my story moved his simple and unsuspecting heart. He gave me food and a bed.