"Do you mean to take us to Como?" "Yes." "When we get there, will you let us go?" "No." "It's further from Como than from here; our horses are tired, and our folks will be frightened." "I am sorry for you--I know it is hard; but I cannot let you go." "Mr. Hurt knows us, and will vouch for us." "Well, I will see Mr. Hurt." Como is reached at last. Our secession friend's barnyards are still standing, and half the men halt there; this time to trouble him for supper as well as forage. With the rest I continue down the road that I walked up so anxiously when I was last here. I dismount and walk to the steps, where stands Mrs. Hurt. We come from a guerrilla country, and in the twilight she does not recognize me. I can see in her frightened look and agitated manner, that she thinks we are some of her Southern brethren. I therefore hasten to announce myself by saying, "How are you, Mrs. Hurt? I have come back for that tea you were getting for me last spring." A very joyful meeting it is; and Mr. Hurt is called, and we shake hands as though we had been lifelong friends, and say to each other that we can hardly believe our acquaintance was but of the part of a single day. Trouble and danger bring people very quickly close together. But the two men all this while have been sitting on their horses at the gate, and now they cough loudly. "Come here," I say to Mr. Hurt, "and tell me if you know these men, and if they are trustworthy." We walk to the gate, and Mr. Hurt bursts into a loud laugh. "Why," he says, "you have arrested the only two Union men there are in Cottage Grove!" I am vexed, but I cannot help laughing; and the men are vexed, but they, after a minute, laugh too. "Don't tell it up there," says Mr. Hurt, "or the secesh will laugh at you all your lives;" and then we shake hands, and they ride away. I need not tell you that this time we stayed to tea; nor how we talked over the events of the former visit; and how everybody remembered where everybody sat, and what everybody did, and every word that everybody said. But it is time to go, and though Mr. Hurt will not hear of it, we saddle up, and bidding them many good-byes, resume our march. Last spring when we crossed the Tennessee, two men, named Anderson and Faris, came into camp as refugees from Paris. When I was in Paris with the flag, some one came behind me and said, in a whisper, "Tell Anderson and Faris not to come back!" As we guarded the Holly Fork next day, Anderson and Faris appeared. I stopped them, not on their account, but for the reason that I would not let _anybody_ pass; and afterward they came down and stayed chiefly in camp. On our expedition to the Obion, Faris had been our guide. He was taken, a court-martial was held, at which a neighbor of his--one Captain Mitchell--was the chief manager and witness; and Faris was sentenced as a spy, and hung. He met his death bravely, writing a calm and heroic letter to his wife upon his coffin.