I threw up my hands with a cry of horror and shut my eyes upon the terrible suggestion of that cruel sight. Lady Marmaduke bent close to me and spoke in my ear. “Methinks I can hear her scream in agony. God, how she must have suffered!” My mistress told me afterwards that I groaned and reeled backward. I should have fallen had she not caught me by the arm. In a moment the passion spent itself and I was sane once more. But the temptation of that smell had prevailed against the prompting of my conscience. I determined to run the risk. My life if it must be! Yes, my life, but his too. So I resolved to join the Red Band. The elaborate precautions I took before I assumed my disguise were not excessive. There were many accidents to be provided against. In the first place, though Lady Marmaduke would be able to account plausibly for my disappearance from New York, I might be tolerably sure that the patroon would scent danger in the circumstance. I must be doubly careful not to leave any tracks that would point either forward or backward from the moment I changed my identity. Paradoxical as it sounds, I must accomplish my disguise without the help of any disguise at all. If my bold plan succeeded and resulted in my becoming a member of the Red Band, I must be able to strip and wash myself before my fellow members, or to stand a merry bout of leapfrog or wrestling in the servants’ quarters. In such a situation I could not guard myself against discovery by means of a painted face that would wash off at the first touch of water, nor rely upon a wig or any other outward changes of my face. I could put on different clothes; I could cut off my beard and moustache; for the rest, I must trust to the very boldness of the deception to bring me through with safety. When night came I had prepared a plan by which I hoped to annihilate every trace of my presence as completely as if I had flown away on the wings of the wind. In the course of the day it got abroad that I should set out early the next morning for Albany on business of Lady Marmaduke’s. In this simple way was my disappearance on the morrow to be accounted for. About midnight Pierre and I left the city stealthily and paddled in a canoe to the shore of Long Island. Little Pierre, as I have said, was a barber. He had brought his shaving utensils with him, and by the light of the moon he shaved me, lip and chin. I then put on the one suit of clothes that I had brought with me and which, fortunately, I had not yet worn in public. Pierre made a bundle of my discarded garments and prepared to set out with them to Marmaduke Hall. We shook hands at the edge of the water. Pierre tried once or twice to say something, but he could not find the voice. He seemed to feel the danger of the situation even more than I did. At last he blurted out: “Well, if we don’t see you again, here’s luck.”