Two days later, just at sunset, a hospital steward passed through the hall of the officers’ side of Prison X, nodded to the sentries at the door, crossed the yard, was let pass the small gate, crossed the court beyond, pretty well occupied as it was with blue soldiers, and approached the heavy, final gate. An official of some description was ahead of him, and he had for a moment to wait. The gate opened, the man in front passed through; there came a moment’s vision of a green tree against a rosy sky—the tree whose head showed above the prison wall. The hospital steward stepped forward. He had the word—it had been bought with a gold-piece of considerable denomination. He gave it; the gate creaked open, he passed out. The sunset looked a fabulous glory; the one tree had the sublimity of the pathless forest. At dark he found the priest’s lodging and, waiting for him, a suit of civilian clothes. He proposed to get to the river that night, swim it, and find dawn and the Virginian shore. “Whist!” said Father Tierney. “You’ll be afther attacking a fretful porcupine! Put out your hand, and you’ll touch a pathrol. They’re thicker on the river bank than blue flies. No, no! you thravel by road till you’re twinty-five miles from here. You’ll come to a hamlet called called —— and there you’ll find a carpenter shop and a negro named Taylor. He’s a faithful freedman and well thought of by the powers that be. You stop and ask for a drink of water, and thin you say in a whisper across the gourd, ‘Benedict Tierney and a boat across.’ You’ll get it.—It’s risky by the road, thrue enough, but divil a bit of risk would there be if you wint shtraight down to the river! The hedgehog would shoot as many quills at you as was necessary.” “Whether I get clear away or not, you have put me under an obligation, Father, which—” “Whist, my son, I’m Southern, I tell ye! Drink your wine, and God be good to the whole of us!” The night was still and starry, dry and warm. Stafford walked in company yet of the second wind. Bliss, bliss, bliss, to be out of Prison X! He went like a child, wary as a man, but like a child in mere whiteness of thought and sensuousness of being. The stars—he looked up at them as a boy might look his first night out of doors. Bright they were and far away, and the flesh crept toward them with a pleasure in the movement and a sadness for the distance. The slumberous masses of the trees, the dim distinction of the horizon, the sound of hidden water, the flicker of fireflies, the odour of the fields, the dust of the glimmering road—all had keenness, sonority, freshness of first encounters. For a long time he was not conscious of fatigue. Even when he knew at last that he was piteously tired, night and the world kept their vividness.