Before we had gone far, we heard loud screams, mingled with oaths and the heavy blows of a whip. Quickening our pace, we soon reached the bank of the little stream, which there was lined with thick underbrush. We could see no one, and the sounds had subsided. In a moment, however, a rough voice called out from behind the bushes: 'Have you had enough? Will you give up?' 'Oh! no, good massa; I can't do dat!' was the half-sobbing, half-moaning reply. 'Give it to her again, Cale!' cried the first voice; and again the whip descended, and again the piercing cries: 'O Lord!' 'Oh, pray doan't!' 'O Lord, hab mercy!' 'Oh! good massa, hab mercy!' mingled with the falling blows. 'This way!' shouted Joe, pressing through the bushes, and bounding down the bank toward the actors in this nineteenth-century tournament, wherein an armed knight and a doughty squire were set against a weak, defenceless woman. Leaning against a pine at a few feet from the edge of the run, was a tall, bony man of about fifty. His hair was coarse and black, and his skin the color of tobacco-juice. He wore the ordinary homespun of the district; and long, deep lines about his mouth and under his eyes told the story of a dissipated life. His entire appearance was anything but prepossessing. At the distance of three or four rods, and bound to the charred trunk of an old tree, was a woman, several shades lighter than the man. Her feet were secured by stout cords, and her arms were clasped around the blackened stump, and tied in that position. Her back was bare to the loins, and, as she hung there, moaning with agony, and shivering with cold, it seemed one mass of streaming gore. The brawny black, whom Boss Joe had so eccentrically addressed at the negro meeting, years before, was in the act of whipping the woman; but with one bound, young Preston was on him. Wrenching the whip from his hand, he turned on his master, crying out: 'Untie her, you white-livered devil, or I'll plough your back as you've ploughed hers!' 'Don't interfere here, you d--d whelp!' shouted Dawsey, livid with rage, and drawing his revolver. 'I'll give you enough of that, you cowardly hound!' cried Joe, taking a small Derringer from his pocket, and coolly advancing upon Dawsey. The latter levelled his pistol, but, before he could fire, by a dexterous movement of my cane, I struck it from his hand. Drawing instantly a large knife, he rushed on me. The knife was descending--in another instant I should have 'tasted Southern steel,' had not Frank caught his arm, wrenched the weapon from his grasp, and with the fury of an aroused tiger, sprung on him and borne him to the ground. Planting his knee firmly on Dawsey's breast, and twisting his neckcloth tightly about his throat, Frank yelled out: 'Stand back. Let _me_ deal with him!' 'But you will kill him.' 'Well, he would have killed _you_!' he cried, tightening his hold on Dawsey's throat.