The sand was beginning to fly when he heard a noise as though some one was clambering up the poles of the stockade. Listening, he stared intently in the direction of the noise. A gust of wind had blown off the cap of the Combahee negro, and by means of a rope he was letting himself down to get it. Was it a mercy? At least it was a chance. Stealing up in the darkness he slapped his hand on the guard’s shoulder. “To whom do you belong, Jim?” Taken by surprise, and noting instinctively the white man’s voice, the thin veneer of freedom and egotism wore off. “To ’state of Norris—on de main, Marster.” “Hand me that pistol from your belt.” Still under the power of the masterful man, the negro handed it over. Scarcely had McArthur taken it, however, when the spell was broken. “Looky ’ere, stan’ off dar. I’se one of de gyards. I b’longs to Mr. Linkum an’ myself, now. Stan’ off an’ gimme dat musket,” he quavered, trying to re-assume his self-confidence. Then he shivered as he felt the cold steel against his temple. “Don’t speak again, or I’ll kill you instantly.” Terrified, the negro fell to wringing his hands, his teeth chattering convulsively. “Take off those clothes,” ordered Ervin, “cap, trousers, coat.” While this was being done, a dark gray form loomed up by his side out of the fog. “You got him? I’ll help you.” It was the mountaineer. McArthur handed him the pistol, and divesting himself, took the negro’s blue uniform and put it on. “If he speaks, blow his brains out!” “Ugh, ugh, ugh!” sobbed the negro, trying hard to swallow even this sound. “Quick, what is your regiment?” “Secon’ South Ca’lina. Marster, please take down dat gun!” “Who runs the ferry boat at Cumming’s Point?” “Hatchett an’ Simpson, Fifty-fourth Massachusetts.” “What is your company?” “Company C, sah.” “Who is the Captain?” “Cap’n ain’t come, marster—name’s Brown—’spectin’ him to-morrow.” Quickly climbing the rope, he picked up the gun of the guard, and began descending. Neither was he to be confused in the fog and darkness. Many times in the Eseeolas had he taken his bearings from a bucket, two sticks and the pole star, as though he were really lost. “You git it?” It was the mulatto’s voice. “Yeah, aisy,” Ervin answered in pure Combahee. He went on down the parapet. “Where you goin’, you blame bluegum gullah?” the mulatto called. “Huh, you swongerrin’ mighty rash to a free nigger wid a gun!” The mulatto laughed. “If I c’d see you, I’d shoot you like one of them d—n rebels. That’s a fancy way you goin’ to camp.” “’Tain’t matter about de road, so long as ’e cah’y you to de right place,” was the answer. Thoroughly familiar with the island, McArthur veered westward and turned his face toward Battery Gregg. As he passed it he was challenged. “Cholly Smif—” “What regiment?” “Secon’ South Ca’lina.” “What duty?” “Gyardin’ dese d—n rebels.” “Pass on, you black nigger braggart.”