Again the latter attempted to lift himself on his elbow, but sky and water changed places before his eyes and he dropped down on his pillow with a stifled sigh.

He seemed to be slipping back into the black night from which he had just emerged.

Again he was at Scratch Hill, again Dave Blount was seeking to steal his nevvy--incidents of the trial and flight recurred to him--all was confused, feverish, without sequence.
Suddenly a shadow fell obliquely across the foot of his narrow bed, and Cavendish, bending his long body somewhat, thrust his head in at the opening.

He found himself looking into a pair of eyes that for the first time in many a long day held the light of consciousness.
"How are you, stranger ?" he demanded, in a soft drawl.
"Where am I ?" the words were a whisper on Yancy's bearded lips.
"Well, sir, you are in the Tennessee River fo' certain; my wife will make admiration when she hears you speak.

Polly! you jest step here." But Polly had heard Cavendish speak, and the murmur of Yancy's voice in reply.