“I start after dinner, and cheer up, man; we will have a good one as a farewell feast.” Then, with evident hesitation, the Colonel went on, as delicately as possible, to show Morton that he had better withdraw his parole and go again under a guard. Removed from his protection, it would not be safe to move among men soured by an unfortunate campaign. Morton assented and expressed his thanks for advice he knew it pained the Colonel to give. Dinner over, the Colonel’s horse was brought, and with a warm grasp of the hand he bade Morton good-bye, leapt into the saddle, and galloped out of sight. Morton saw him not again. In a despondent mood Morton turned away and sought the guard-tent, when he gave himself up to the officer-of-the-day, who accepted his surrender as a matter of course. The soldiers took little notice of him, being in high spirits at the prospect of going back to the States and busily engaged in the preparations to leave. That afternoon part of the baggage-train left and went floundering along the muddy road to Four Corners. As evening drew nigh, the rain, accompanied by a raw east wind, recommenced, flooding the level clearances upon which the tents were pitched and making everybody miserable. The captain of the guard sought shelter from the blast and the water by causing the tents he controlled to be pitched on the slope of a hollow scooped out by a creek, and in one of them Morton lay down along with seven soldiers. Sleep soon came to relieve him of his depression in mind and discomfort of body, and the hours sped while he was so unconscious that he did not hear when his companions left to take their turn on duty and those they relieved took their places in the tent. His first deep sleep was over when he felt that some furtive hand was being passed over the canvas to find the opening. When the flap was drawn aside, so dark was it that he could not distinguish who stood there. He supposed it was some belated private seeking cover from the pelting rain and he was about to turn and resume his slumber when a flint was struck and the tent was lit for a moment by its sparks. Somebody lighting a pipe, he said, too drowsy to look. A minute afterwards he felt that the curtain of the tent where his head lay was being cautiously lifted and soon a hand reached in, touched his face, and then catching the collar of his coat began pulling. He made a motion to resist, when a voice whispered, “Hemlock.” In a flash he realized he was about to be rescued, and, guided by the hand that grasped him, slowly crept out. No sooner was he upon his feet, than he felt men were gliding past him into the tent. All at once there was a sound of striking, as of knives being driven into the bodies of the sleeping inmates, a slight commotion, a few groans, and then all was still. Morton’s flesh crept, as he guessed at the horrid work in which the Indians were engaged. So intensely dark was it, that he could see nothing. There was a slight shuffling