The fugitive turned off to the right into a narrow path that wound through the laurel thickets. Jake followed with all the energy that remained in him, confident that a short distance more would bring him so close to his game that he could force his surrender by a threat of bayoneting. He caught up to within a rod of the Rebel, and was already foreshortening his gun for a lunge in case of refusal to surrender on demand, when he was amazed to see the Rebel whirl around, level his gun at him, and order HIS surrender. Jake was so astonished that he stumbled, fell forward and dropped his gun. As he raised his eyes he saw three or four other Rebels step out from behind a rock, and level their guns upon him with an expression of bloodthirstiness that seemed simply fiendish. Then it flashed upon him how far away he was from all his comrades, and that the labyrinth of laurel made them even more remote. With this realization came the involuntary groan: “O, Lordy! it's all up with me. I'm a goner, sure!” His courage did not ooze out of his fingers, like the historic Bob Acres's; it vanished like gas from a rent balloon. He clasped his hands and tried to think of some prayer. “Now I lay me,” he murmured. “Shan't we shoot the varmint?” said one of the Rebels, with a motion of his gun in harmony with that idea. “O, mister--mister--GOOD mister, DON'T! PLEASE don't! I swear I didn't mean to do no harm to you.” “Wall, ye acted monty quare fur a man that didn't mean no harm,” said the pursued man, regaining his breath with some difficulty. “A-chasin' me down with thet ar prod on yer gun, an' a-threatenin' to stick hit inter me at every jump. Only wanted ter see me run, did yer?” “O, mister, I only done it because I wuz ordered to. I couldn't help myself; I swear I couldn't.” “Whar's the ossifers thet wuz a-orderin' ye? Whar's the captins that wuz puttin' ye up ter hit? Thar wan't no one in a mile of ye. Guess we'd better shoot ye.” Again Jake raised his voice in abject appeal for mercy. There was nothing he was not willing to promise if only his life were only spared. “Wouldn't hit be better ter bay'net him?” suggested one of the Rebels, entirely unmoved, as his comrades were, by Jake's piteous pleadings. “Ef we go ter shootin' 'round yere hit'll liekly bring the Yankees right onter us.” “I 'spect hit would be better ter take him back a little ways, any way,” said the man whom Jake had pursued. “Pick up his gun thar, Eph. Come along, you, an' be monty peart about hit, fur we're in a powerful bad frame o' mind ter be fooled with. I wouldn't gin a fi'-penny-bit fur all yer blue-bellied life's worth. The boys ar jest pizen mad from seein' so many o' thar kin and folks killed by yer crowd o' thievin' Hessians.”