And so the former teacher and pupil were being pushed farther and farther apart. Douglass knew that Garrison’s health was poor. He thought, _I must go to Boston, I must see him_. And then his mind reverted to the low state of his funds. He rode along sunk in dejection. He did not heed the horses’ hoofs beating the road until they came close behind him. He looked back--three riders were just topping the hill. They slowed up there and seemed to draw together. And suddenly Douglass felt that familiar stiffening of his spine. At the moment he was in the shadow of a grove; but just ahead the road lifted and he would be completely exposed. He walked his horse. Perhaps he was mistaken. They were coming forward at a slower pace and would most certainly see him any moment now. As he left the shadow of the trees he touched his horse and shot forward. He heard a shout and bent over as a bullet whizzed by! It was to be a chase, but they were armed and he could not outrun their bullets. The road was a winding ribbon now, and he was gaining. He saw a clump of trees ahead. Yes, there was a little lane. As he turned off sharply, he felt a sear of pain across his head. He leaned forward and let his horse find its own way through the trees. Once a low hanging branch nearly swept him off, and several times the animal stumbled. Then they came out into a field, and ahead on a slight knoll was a big house. He could hear them behind him, and that open field meant more exposure; but the house was his only hope. He thought of the unfinished editorial lying on his desk. “I’ve got to finish it!” he thought desperately, and gritted his teeth to keep from fainting. Horse and rider were panting when they pulled up at the steps of the wide porch. No lights showed anywhere. Naturally, Douglass thought, everybody was sound asleep. His head felt very queer. He wanted to giggle--_What on earth am I doing pounding at this heavy door in the middle of the night?_ Gideon Pitts heard the pounding. He got up and started down in his bare feet. “You’ll catch your death of cold, Gideon!” his wife called after him. But she herself was fumbling for her wrapper. She lit the lamp and holding it in her hand followed her husband to the head of the stairs. Down below in the dark he was fumbling with the heavy bolt. It shot back at last and the great door swung in. A big man filled the doorway. He was gasping for breath. He took one step inside and said, “I’m--I’m Frederick Douglass.” Then he collapsed on the floor at Gideon Pitts’s bare feet. Gideon stood staring out. Through the open door he was sure he saw a couple of horsemen down at the edge of the field. He slammed the door. Mrs. Pitts was hurrying down, the lamp casting grotesque shadows on the wall. “What is it, Gideon? What is it? Did he say--?” “Hush! It’s Frederick Douglass. He’s been hurt. Somebody’s after him!” Her husband’s words were hurried and low. He was bending over the man on the floor.