A heavy damp snow was falling fast. I had to go on foot through it fully a mile and a half to intercede for this enemy of my country; while he rode to his prison-house in a buggy at the government’s expense. On my way I met one of my deacons, a physician. He was by birth a Kentuckian, but staunchly loyal. Thinking that I had no right to expose myself to that pitiless storm, he asked me in peremptory tones where I was going. I told him. He then wished to know what offence the imprisoned preacher had committed. I replied that I did not certainly know, but a report was abroad that he had ridden in a dark night through the picket line of the Federal army at Mexico, and, having been called upon to halt, had put spurs to his horse, and had holloed as he rode at breakneck speed to elude the musket-balls of the soldiers, “Hurrah for Jeff Davis!” The deacon cried out in indignation, “You go home out of this storm and let him sweat.” But I could not break my word to the prisoner, so I trudged on, saw the provost marshal, and pleaded as earnestly as I could for my incarcerated brother. He said that he would grant me anything that I might ask within the bounds of reason, but on account of the imperative demands upon him, he could not try the prisoner until the next day. Having done my best at the office of the provost marshal, I walked a mile through the damp snow, that was still copiously falling, to the prison at the corner of Fifth and Myrtle Streets, to make known to my rebel neighbor the result of my effort on his behalf. When I told him that his case could not be heard till the next day, he said in a disappointed tone: “Then, I must stay here all night,—it is a horrible place.” “Yes,” I quickly replied, “it is a slave-pen.” His eyes filled with tears as he said, “I never sold a slave.” His reply made me regret the thrust that I had inconsiderately given him. But in a moment he added, “I wish that I had some apples and tobacco.” Though I did not use tobacco myself I went through the storm about a mile, purchased for him out of my own pocket the desired articles, carried them back to him, and giving him my best wishes, I bade him good day, leaving him in that old slave-pen to his tobacco, apples and thoughts. The next morning he was brought before the Military court, which having heard his case, through its great leniency decided, in spite of his grave offence, to discharge him. Returning to his home he had to go by my door; but he did not call to thank me for what I had done on his behalf; neither did he write me, nor did he ever in any way express the slightest gratitude or appreciation of what I did for him on that stormy day in order to secure his deliverance from the slave-pen prison.