He was silent for a moment or two, and then answered coldly,-- "If you do not know, neither do I." There was something almost sneering in his tone; and starting up with my weapons in my hand, I exclaimed,-- "Turner, you are telling me a lie." "A lie!" he cried fiercely, rising likewise; "a lie! and that to me, the destroying messenger of God, commissioned to bring down the high, and to raise up the lowly;--to me, who never told anything but truth in all my life!" "Ay," I answered angrily, for I felt quite sure he was deceiving me. "You are telling me a lie; and if you do not instantly let me know what has become of Miss Davenport, I will send the charge of this gun through your heart." He gave a low whistle, and then a laugh; and I had hardly time to raise the gun to my shoulder, before three stout negroes were by his side, each with a musket in his hand. These were somewhat fearful odds; but there was no escape, and I made up my mind instantly. They might hit, or they might miss me; but I felt very sure that before I fell, I would have two of their lives. The right-hand barrel of my gun for Turner himself; the left-hand barrel for the man next to him: such was the calculation; and then, if I still survived, I had the sword and the pistol left. Long deliberation under such circumstances is neither possible nor necessary. Both hammers were up, my finger was on the trigger, murderers were before, and the next instant I should have fired at any risk, and at any odds. But just at that moment I heard a rushing, rustling sort of sound, close upon my right hand; and, afraid of being taken on the flank, I paused and turned my head a little to see who was coming. At the same moment, a tall, stalwart black man standing on the right of Nat Turner fired his musket, and I felt the ball go through my hair, and slightly graze my temple. "That is one shot lost," I said to myself, drawing back towards the great tree, and so covering my right side. "He shall not have time to load again." But before I could discharge my gun, the space between me and my adversaries was occupied by two figures which I recognized, indeed, but not quite distinctly in the excitement of the moment and the somewhat waning light. CHAPTER XXIV. "Hold, Nelson, hold!" cried Nat Turner, in a loud tone; "why do you fire before I give the word? By the Lord, you will bring them all upon us. Do you not know they are close at hand?" These words were spoken before the fresh actors had appeared upon the scene, and just as the man had pulled the trigger; but the next instant, an old negro, with a snow-white head, rushed in between me and the others, and holding wide his arms, exclaimed,--