“Don’ yo’ run away wid ol’ Sam’s pistol, Moster Had,” whispered the negro. “Dat pistol goin’ ter sabe ol’ Sam’s life sometime, like ’nough.” “You’ll get into trouble with the farmers if they catch you with such an ugly thing in your clothes,” Hadley returned, doubtfully, for, like the other whites of the neighborhood, he did not believe in too much liberty for the blacks, although the masters were struggling for their freedom. “Moster Holdness gib me dat weapon,” responded Sam, “an’ he mighty pleased wid me, Moster Had.” Hadley handed back the pistol when he heard the scout’s name, for he knew that Holdness must have some good reason for wishing Black Sam to be armed. Lon had not seen this little byplay; but he shouted for Sam now to help pole the boat back across the river. “Be as slow as possible, Sam!” Hadley whispered, leaping astride his mare. “Those chaps over there might take it into their heads to cross, after all--though they’d be running their necks into a noose. Our people must be all about here.” Sam pushed the heavy landing plank aboard again and picked up his pole, while Hadley rode up the steep bank and reached the highway. Black Molly had recovered her wind now, and as soon as she struck the hard road started at a good pace without being urged. Hadley knew the general direction which he was to follow--for the first few miles at least; but he had never been over the road before. The possibility of falling in with royalist sympathizers on the dark woodroad along which the little mare bore him caused the boy to fairly shake with dread. Every little noise startled him. If Molly stepped upon a crackling branch, he threw a startled look from left to right, fearing that some enemy lurked in the thickets which bordered the road. It would be an awful thing to be shot down from ambush, and it would scarcely matter whether he was shot by bushwhackers or scouts of the American army. By and by, however, the narrow woodroad opened into a broader highway. He was on the Germantown pike, and there were houses scattered along the roadside--but all dark and silent, save for the baying of watchdogs as Molly bore him on and on, her tireless feet clattering over the hard-packed road. The mist rising from the low lands stretched itself in ribbons across the road, as though to stop his progress. He drew up the collar of his coat and bent low over Molly’s neck, shivering as the dampness penetrated his garments. It was early cockcrow. Suddenly, from just before him where the mist hid the way, came the clatter of arms. A cry rang out on the morning air, Molly rose on her haunches and backed without her rider’s drawing rein. Hadley was nearly flung to the ground.