Judging from the fact that many of the dead horses seen on the road bore the brand of the "United States," and from other indications, they arrived at the conclusion that the Union forces were not very distant, and that they themselves were now possibly in the wake of Sherman's army. This being the case, the hope revived in their breasts of soon joining their friends--unless they had the misfortune to be picked up by the enemy's scouts. Hence, having lost so much of the night, they decided to travel this time by day, and at once put their determination into practice. Glazier and his friend soon discovered, however, that they were not expedited in their journey to any great extent--the streams being greatly swollen by the recent rains, formed a serious obstacle to their further progress. They also felt that traveling by daylight was attended with much hazard to their safety. One advantage of journeying through a part of the country lately traversed by an invading army, was found in the fact of there being much smouldering fire along their line of march, and thus our friends ran no risk of attracting attention by approaching these fires at their several halting-places. This circumstance afforded one element of comfort--_warmth_. But another, still more important, was lacking, namely--_food_. They had traveled the entire day without meeting a single negro, and hence, their commissariat was _non est_, and gaunt hunger created in them a sense of desperation. In this state they reached, after sunset, a plantation, where no house appeared but a number of humble shanties; and, weary, starving and desperate, they boldly advanced to the door of the best-looking cabin, and knocked for admission. "Who's thar?" was answered in a tone, common to the poor whites and blacks of that section, that afforded no indication of the color of the speaker. That, however, was the first thing to determine before proceeding further. So our hero replied, interrogatively: "Are you black or white in there?" "Thar aint no niggahs heah," was the response, and the indignant tone of its delivery placed it beyond doubt that they had fallen upon a family of "poor whites." Glazier thereupon changed his voice to that of the "high-toned" rebel, and asked why he kept an officer of the Confederate army waiting for admittance. The man reluctantly opened the door, and the _soi-disant_ Confederate demanded in an imperious tone, "How long is it since our army passed here?" "What army?" was the cautious query, before an answer was vouchsafed. "Why the rebel army, of course!" The man hereupon stated that Wheeler's cavalry had passed by a week before, following Sherman's rear guard. "How far is it to General Wheeler's headquarters?" asked Lieutenant Glazier. "I dun'no!" growled the other; "but I guess it's a right smart distance."