It was all so quick, so unexpected! Through the curling wreath of smoke from the rifle, Silury’s face appeared for a moment to the amazed eyes of the officers; then they realized what had happened, and fearing a stronger attack, put spurs to their horses and hustled their other prisoners away, leaving the dead mule in the road. The next morning, as the rising sun gilded the mountain tops with gold, the revenue officers rode through the streets of the market town with two prisoners, telling a thrilling story of the moonshiners’ ambush at Buckhorn Springs and the escape of Amaziah Cole. It was about that same time that Silury stood again on the doorstep of home, her face aglow, her eyes radiant, in spite of the sleepless night spent abroad on the mountains. Bolivar crouched against her feet, or licked her hands in his joy at her return, but she scarcely noticed him. She was looking at the unfinished supper, cold on the hearth, the gray, fireless ashes in the deep fireplace, and her mother asleep in her chair. "Wake up, ma! wake up!" she cried, joyously; "pa is here!" Mrs. Cole started up and rubbed her eyes as she saw her husband and daughter standing in the doorway. "Did I dream it all?" she murmured helplessly. "I thought the raiders were takin’ you to jail, Amaziah." "So they were, an’ I’d be there right now ef—" he stopped, choked with emotion, and his hand stroked Silury’s head. "An’ he’s never goin’ to be a moonshiner again, ma, never! Ain’t we glad!" and Silury slipped across the floor to wake the younger children. Her father’s proud eyes followed her. "It’s all owin’ to you, all owin’ to you, Silury." *’ZEKI’L.* He lived alone in a weather-beaten log-cabin built on the roadside at the edge of a rocky, sterile field, with a few stunted peach-trees growing around it, and a wild grape-vine half covering the one slender oak shading the front yard. The house consisted of only one room, with a wide, deep fireplace in the north end, and a wide window to the south. The logs had shrunk apart, leaving airy cracks in the walls, and the front door creaked on one hinge, the other having rusted away. But ’Zeki’l Morgan’s ambition seemed satisfied when he came into possession of the house, the unproductive clearing around it, and the narrow strip of woodland bounding the richer farm beyond. From the cabin door could be seen the broken, picturesque hills marking the course of the Etowah River, with the Blue Ridge Mountains far beyond, and the Long Swamp range rising in the foreground.