The pastor was behind the old woman. The negro seeing her, started up, ran and shook the window sash—it resisted his efforts to raise or break; sprang to the opposite side, tried another window in vain—then attempted to dart past the minister who stood in the door. Mr. Withers extended his arm, intercepted and captured the fugitive. He struggled—Mr. Withers was cool, strong, and determined—held him fast by the wrists—trying to get them together that he might bind them. He stood firm, while the negro—his eyes glaring like flame in a dark night, his teeth set, his thick neck swollen, his starting muscles, like knotted cords in his sinewy arms, fell violently from side to side in his desperate efforts to escape. He had been starving, and the factitious strength lent by despair soon failed—his struggles became fainter and fainter—and ceased as Mr. Withers bore him down to the floor, placed his knee upon his breast, crossed his wrists, and hallooed to the old woman to bring a cord to bind him. Old Cumbo, in a distant part of the room, was bathing her young mistress’s face with water—Sophia Churchill was recovering from her faint. The old woman hobbled up, shaking her hand in the face of the captive as she passed him, exclaiming, “You gallows face vilyun you!” went into the hall, opened a dark closet under the stairs, and drew out a clothes line, which she brought to Mr. Withers. He bound his prisoner securely, and then stood up from his labors to breathe; his eyes fell on the drooping form of Sophia Churchill, he walked up to her and stooping over her spake softly, “You have been in some danger and very great alarm, Miss Churchill; I thank God who inspired my visit to you this evening. I just chanced to knock at your hall door, as your old servant, aroused by your screams, had come down to your assistance; she opened the door and admitted me.” Sophia was still trembling in every limb, and the tears were trickling down her cheeks. “And now, Miss Churchill, I must leave you immediately to proceed to the village and procure an officer; the miscreant must be lodged in jail to-night. Don’t feel any more alarm; he is perfectly secure, or if it would relieve you, we can lock him up; have you a room?” “No,” said Sophia, “don’t lock him up.” “It would be altogether a work of supererogation, I think. Well, Miss Churchill, I will leave you now, and return within two hours.” So saying the minister took his hat and withdrew. Sophia remained leaning her cheek upon her hand. The old woman stood stooping over the negro with her hands resting on her knees, peering down in his face. “Kik—kik—kik!” (laughing), “you ready trussed for hanging up now, ain’t you? kik—kik—kik—kik! how you feel when git rope roun’ neck, hey? Mind, I gwine see you hang, hear?” “Cumbo, come away,” commanded Miss Churchill, as sternly as she knew how to speak.