Suddenly, thick clouds throw their friendly veil over the
moon. You swim for your life, with balls whizzing round you. Thanks
to the darkness and the water, you baffle the hounds, both animal
and human. Weary and wounded, you travel through the forests, your
eye fixed hopefully on the North Star, which seems ever beckoning
you onward to freedom, with its bright glances through the foliage.
In the day-time, you lie in the deep holes of swamps, concealed by
rank weeds and tangled vines, taking such rest as can be obtained
among swarms of mosquitoes and snakes. Through incredible perils and
fatigues, footsore and emaciated, you arrive at last in the States
called Free. You allow yourself little time to rest, so eager are
you to press on further North. You have heard the masters swear with
peculiar violence about Massachusetts, and you draw the inference
that it is a refuge for the oppressed. Within the borders of that
old Commonwealth, you breathe more freely than you have ever done.
You resolve to rest awhile, at least, before you go to Canada.
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