The swaggering imperiousness in Edward's tone nettled Fortner as much as the order itself. “I don't make a practice of layin' down my gun for no man,” he said proudly. “I'm ez good Union ez ary of you'uns dar be, an' I don't take no orders from ye. I could've killed ye both, ef I'd a wanted ter, afore ye ever seed me.” Bolton's gun cracked, and the bullet buried itself in the thick, soft bark of the chestnut, just above Fortner's head, and threw dust and chips in his eyes. He brushed them away angrily, and instinctively raised his rifle. Kent took this as his cue to fire, but his aim was even worse than Abe's. “Ruined again by strong drink,” he muttered despairingly, as he saw the failure of his shot. “Nothing but new apple jack could make me miss so fair a mark.” “Now, ye fellers, lay down YORE guns!” shouted Fortner, springing forward to where they were, with his rifle cocked. “Lay 'em down! I say. Lay 'em down, or I'll let daylight through ye!” “He's got us, Abe,” said Kent, laying down his musket reluctantly. His example was followed by Abe, who, however, did not place his gun so far that he could not readily pick it up again, if Fortner gave him an instant's opportunity. Fortner noticed this, and pushed the musket farther away with his foot, still covering the two with his rifle. “Ye see now,” he said “thet I hev ye at my marcy, ef I wanted ter kill or capture ye. Efi I gin ye back yer guns, ye'll admit thet I'm yer friend, and not yer inimy, won't ye?” “It'll certainly look like an overture to a permanent and disinterested friendship,” said Kent, brightening up; and Abe, who was gathering himself up for a spring to catch Fortner's rifle, let his muscles relax again. “Well, ye kin take up yer guns agin and load 'em,” said Fortner, letting down the hammer of his rifle. “I'm Jim Fortner, supposed ter be the pizenest Union man on the Rockassel! Come along ter my house, an I'll gin ye a good meal o' vittels. Hit's on'y a little piece off, an' I've got thar one of yer fellers. His name's Harry Glen. Chapter XIV. In the Hospital. As the tall ship whose lofty prore Shall never stem the billows more Deserted by her gallant band, Amid the breakers lies astrand-- Soon his couch lay Rhoderick Dhu, And oft his fevered limbs he threw In toss abrupt, as when her sides Lie rocking in the advancing tides, That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, Yet can not heave her from her seat;-- O, how unlike her course on sea! Or his free step on hill and lea!--Lady of the Lake.