"Yes, and I am with you, Duplin. I was a fool. We will make another attempt. It can be no worse than now, and may be better," energetically cried Wythe, springing to his feet, and then the hands of the comrades met in a hearty clasp. They turned and blindly reëntered the tunnel. It was slow, weary work, but they persisted, and for hours crept on, for the greater part of the time upon hands and knees now and then cheering each other with an encouraging word of hope. Even was there time, it would be wearisome to follow them step by step through all these winding passages, more than once retracing their steps to begin anew, as they came to the abrupt termination of some tunnel. Enough has already been said, to give the reader an idea of their experience, in a preceding chapter. Enough to say that kind Providence guided them aright, after almost incredible sufferings, and finally a dim light, far in the distance, broke upon their strained vision. For a moment they paused, fearing to move, to breathe, lest the glad vision should vanish. And in that moment they read the truth. With inarticulate cries they arose and rushed forward. It was no delusion--the light was that of heaven; and then they stood in the open air, beneath the welcome sun! They sunk upon the ground, faint and speechless. They were not what is called _Christians_, and they did not raise their voices in loud thanksgiving for the great mercy that had been shown them. And yet they were grateful--they recognized the goodness of the Omnipotent in their rescue, and their thanksgiving, if mute, was no less sincere and devout than if it had been couched in the most eloquent of terms. Their hands met and were lightly clasped. For a time they seemed drinking in the fresh, balmy air, the clear, glorious sunlight, with a rapture that until now had been a stranger to their hearts. All this was what they had mentally bidden farewell to, as they believed, forever. "We are free at last, Burr!" murmured Duplin. "Yes--but I'm awful thirsty!" was the prosaic reply. That word recalled them to a sense of their sufferings. As they now knew, by the position occupied by the sun, they had been beneath the surface for over a day and night; and during all these hours they had ate no food, tasted no water whatever. Duplin gazed keenly around. Then he gave a low, husky cry. He recognized the spot where they were. In their wanderings they had passed entirely through the great hill! "Yonder is the creek--now for water!" he cried, and then sprung forward like a startled deer. Flat upon their stomachs they lay, and quaffed the cool, sparkling water with ecstatic delight. It was almost worth enduring such a trial for the pleasure imbibed with that draught. "Ha!" suddenly exclaimed Wythe, as he started up. "Look at this, Duplin," and he pointed to a damp, blood-stained rag that lay half upon a rock, half in the water.