A great fire of pine logs is kindled on the track, and the dusky figures of our volunteer guard pass to and fro, now illuminated by the red glare of light, then vanishing like shadowy spectres into the darkness, and the white watery moon peering out from a ragged mass of leaden clouds, or hiding behind them, gives the whole scene a weird look, like a living illustration torn out from some dead romance. There is no talking, no sound, only the solitary figures of the watchers stalking to and fro in the mysterious gloom. In the soft grey dawn of the morning we are roused (though indeed few of us need rousing, we too have been silent watchers through the night). We make a hasty toilet, gather our belongings together, descend from the cars, and walk along the line to meet the New Orleans train which has been signalled to stop, and is already disgorging its living freight. The alighting passengers meet us face to face with scared inquiring looks, as wondering why they have been roused from their sleep so early. The sight of our dilapidated train explains the mystery, and our sleepy melancholy processions pass each other by; they go east by the train which has been sent from Montgomery to meet them, and we enter the cars they have vacated. On viewing our wrecked train by the morning light we realise more completely the danger we have passed through. The transfer of baggage and passengers is soon made, and by the time the beautiful sun has opened like a rich red rose in the east, we are once more on our way towards New Orleans.