About three o'clock--the weather had become bright and almost warm
before noon--I was lounging about on the bank of the trout-stream that
ran past the door, with my guard at my shoulder, when I saw a group of
several figures approaching. When they came nearer, one man lifted his
cap on his bayonet's point, and the others shouted. I could not catch
the words; but I guessed the truth: they had run down Shipley, after
all. He was so utterly exhausted, both in mind and body, when first
brought in, that he could hardly speak: he was not of a hardy
constitution, and he had undergone fatigue enough--to say nothing of the
fearful weather--to have broken down a more practiced pedestrian.
Dolley's party were not the actual captors, though they were hard on the
fugitive's trail; another squad, sent to search for some Confederates
supposed to be hidden in the neighborhood, had come upon some tracks in
the snow, leading to a farm-house, and there discovered my unhappy
guide, sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. This was twelve miles from the
spot where we parted, and he had struggled on till strength would carry
him no further.
The lieutenant's face grew longer than Nature had left it, as he
perused, one after another, the documents found on Shipley. Though his
demeanor towards myself remained quite amicable, it was clear that he
judged me, to a certain extent, by my associations; and his simple
joviality was somewhat clouded by an uneasy sense of responsibility.
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