Peek was an accomplished driver. That very afternoon he had learnt where the steam-tug lay, and had gone over the route in order to be sure of no obstructions. He now at first took a direction away from the river to deceive pursuit. Then winding through several obscure streets, he came upon the avenue running parallel with the Levee, and proceeded for nearly two miles till he drew near that part of the river where the Artful Dodger, with steam all up, was moored against the extensive embankment, from the top of which you can look down on the floor of the Crescent City, lying several feet below the river’s level. The rain continued to pour furiously, each drop swelling to the size of a big arrow-head before reaching the earth. It was not unusual to see carriages driven at great speed through the streets during such an elementary turmoil: else the policemen or soldiers would have tried to stop Peek in his headlong career. Probably they had most of them got under some shelter, and did not care to come out to expose themselves to a drenching. On and on rolled the carriage. The rain seemed to drown all noises, so that the occupants could not tell whether or no there was a trampling of horses in pursuit. As the carriage passed on to a macadamized section of the road, “Tell me,” said Onslow, “what happened after my father gave you the letter?” “I hardly had time to conceal it,” replied Peek, “when six of the ruffians entered the room, and I was ordered out. I pleaded hard to stay, but ’ was no use. The house was entirely surrounded by armed men, ready to shoot down any one attempting to escape. Your father had enjoined it upon me that I should leave him to die rather than myself run the risk of not reaching you with his letter and his messages.” “_Did_ he?” cried Onslow. “Was he, then, more anxious that I should know all, than that he himself should escape?” “He feared life more than death after what had happened,” said Peek. “The six ruffians tried to get out of him words to implicate certain supposed Union men in the neighborhood; but he would tell no secrets. He obstinately resisted their orders and threats, and at last their leader, in a rage, thrust his sword into the old man’s lungs. The wound did not immediately kill; but the loss of blood seemed likely to make him faint. Fearing he would balk them in their last revenge, the ruffians dragged him out to a tree and hung him.” “Did you see it done?” “I saw him the moment after it was done. I had been trying to satisfy myself that there was no life in your mother’s body; and it was not till I heard the shouts of the crowd that I learnt what was going on below. I ran out, but your father was already dead. He died, I learnt, without a struggle, much to the disappointment of the Rebels.” “And my mother,” asked Onslow. “Was there any hope?” “None whatever, sir. She was undoubtedly dead.”