"Move up the river," was the reply. "I knows jest the place where we wouldn't be found in a thousand years." "When d'yer want to start?" asked Tom. In ten minutes the abductors, with the stolen child, were slowly winding their way along the deserted beach. It was now very dark. No stars were shining, and it had become bitterly cold. Suddenly voices were heard, and the abductors stopped to listen. They were in a ravine near the magazine landing, not more than fifty feet from the spot where the Lillian was launched. Foley, Tom, and Hildey crouched low, and drew the little girl closer. The steady dip of oars was heard up stream, and the voices grew plainer. Out of the mingled sounds was heard, "I agrees with Sandy, he's the dirtiest coward as ever went unhung." Lillian started, for she recognized the voice of the Jedge, who with Colonel Franklin, Sandy, Dink, Leander and Gilbert, were returning from a sail up the river. Foley became frightened, and bending over, hissed into the child's ear: "Remember what I tol' yer: if yer utter a sound, I'll kill yer." The sailing party meantime had reached the landing and stepped ashore. Sandy and the other three boys lowered the sail, rolled and carried it into the boat-house. The whole party then, marching three abreast, with steady step, went up the graveled walk of the old magazine road, singing in unison: "Hep--Hep-- Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step. Hep--Hep-- Shoot that ni**er if he don't keep step." While its cadence was continued by Colonel Franklin and the Jedge, the four boys, in marching rhythm, sang out cheerily into the crisp cold night: "When other lips and other hearts, Their tales of love shall tell, In accents whose excess imparts The power they feel so well. There may, perhaps, in such a scene, Some recollection be, Of days that have as happy been, And you'll remember me." The three scoundrels listened, as the voices rose and fell on the air. The child, with the fear of death before her, and in the clutches of her horrible captor, gave one convulsive sob and sank swooning at his feet. Foley picked her up and, walking quickly, placed her in the very boat her father and friends had left but a moment before. He wrapped her in a ragged coat, loosened the hasp of the door on the boat-house, and took out the oars. Quickly the captors pushed the craft into deep water, and with muffled stroke moved through the inky waves, a somber specter sneaking along the banks of the sleeping marches. When they neared the upper bridge, Foley ran the boat ashore and abandoned it. Picking up the exhausted and benumbed child, he led his two companions along the causeway and over the road leading to the bridge. The wind came out of the north, howling through the leafless boughs of the mighty monarchs of the forest. The last flickering light of the town was left far behind, and darkness, like a great shroud, enveloped river, valley and woods.