Suddenly he heard a sharp report and something struck the water smartly
within a few inches of his head, spattering his face with spray. He
heard a second report, and saw one of the sentinels with his rifle at
his shoulder, a light cloud of blue smoke rising from the muzzle. The
man in the water saw the eye of the man on the bridge gazing into his
own through the sights of the rifle. He observed that it was a gray eye
and remembered having read that gray eyes were keenest, and that all
famous marksmen had them. Nevertheless, this one had missed. A counter-swirl had caught Farquhar and turned him half round; he was
again looking at the forest on the bank opposite the fort. The sound of
a clear, high voice in a monotonous singsong now rang out behind him
and came across the water with a distinctness that pierced and subdued
all other sounds, even the beating of the ripples in his ears. Although
no soldier, he had frequented camps enough to know the dread
significance of that deliberate, drawling, aspirated chant; the
lieutenant on shore was taking a part in the morning’s work. How coldly
and pitilessly—with what an even, calm intonation, presaging, and
enforcing tranquility in the men—with what accurately measured interval
fell those cruel words:

“Company!… Attention!… Shoulder arms!… Ready!… Aim!… Fire!”

Farquhar dived—dived as deeply as he could. The water roared in his
ears like the voice of Niagara, yet he heard the dull thunder of the
volley and, rising again toward the surface, met shining bits of metal,
singularly flattened, oscillating slowly downward. Some of them touched
him on the face and hands, then fell away, continuing their descent. One lodged between his collar and neck; it was uncomfortably warm and
he snatched it out. As he rose to the surface, gasping for breath, he saw that he had been
a long time under water; he was perceptibly farther downstream—nearer
to safety. The soldiers had almost finished reloading; the metal
ramrods flashed all at once in the sunshine as they were drawn from the
barrels, turned in the air, and thrust into their sockets. The two
sentinels fired again, independently and ineffectually. The hunted man saw all this over his shoulder; he was now swimming
vigorously with the current. His brain was as energetic as his arms and
legs; he thought with the rapidity of lightning:

“The officer,” he reasoned, “will not make that martinet’s error a
second time. It is as easy to dodge a volley as a single shot. He has
probably already given the command to fire at will. God help me, I
cannot dodge them all!”

An appalling splash within two yards of him was followed by a loud,
rushing sound, DIMINUENDO, which seemed to travel back through the air
to the fort and died in an explosion which stirred the very river to
its deeps! A rising sheet of water curved over him, fell down upon him,
blinded him, strangled him! The cannon had taken an hand in the game. As he shook his head free from the commotion of the smitten water he
heard the deflected shot humming through the air ahead, and in an
instant it was cracking and smashing the branches in the forest beyond. “They will not do that again,” he thought; “the next time they will use
a charge of grape. I must keep my eye upon the gun; the smoke will
apprise me—the report arrives too late; it lags behind the missile. That is a good gun.”

Suddenly he felt himself whirled round and round—spinning like a top. The water, the banks, the forests, the now distant bridge, fort and
men, all were commingled and blurred. Objects were represented by their
colors only; circular horizontal streaks of color—that was all he saw. He had been caught in a vortex and was being whirled on with a velocity
of advance and gyration that made him giddy and sick. In few moments he
was flung upon the gravel at the foot of the left bank of the
stream—the southern bank—and behind a projecting point which concealed
him from his enemies. The sudden arrest of his motion, the abrasion of
one of his hands on the gravel, restored him, and he wept with delight. He dug his fingers into the sand, threw it over himself in handfuls and
audibly blessed it. It looked like diamonds, rubies, emeralds; he could
think of nothing beautiful which it did not resemble. The trees upon
the bank were giant garden plants; he noted a definite order in their
arrangement, inhaled the fragrance of their blooms. A strange roseate
light shone through the spaces among their trunks and the wind made in
their branches the music of AEolian harps. He had not wish to perfect
his escape—he was content to remain in that enchanting spot until
retaken. A whiz and a rattle of grapeshot among the branches high above his head
roused him from his dream. The baffled cannoneer had fired him a random
farewell. He sprang to his feet, rushed up the sloping bank, and
plunged into the forest. All that day he traveled, laying his course by the rounding sun. The
forest seemed interminable; nowhere did he discover a break in it, not
even a woodman’s road. He had not known that he lived in so wild a
region. There was something uncanny in the revelation. By nightfall he was fatigued, footsore, famished. The thought of his
wife and children urged him on. At last he found a road which led him
in what he knew to be the right direction. It was as wide and straight
as a city street, yet it seemed untraveled. No fields bordered it, no
dwelling anywhere. Not so much as the barking of a dog suggested human
habitation. The black bodies of the trees formed a straight wall on
both sides, terminating on the horizon in a point, like a diagram in a
lesson in perspective. Overhead, as he looked up through this rift in
the wood, shone great golden stars looking unfamiliar and grouped in
strange constellations. He was sure they were arranged in some order
which had a secret and malign significance. The wood on either side was
full of singular noises, among which—once, twice, and again—he
distinctly heard whispers in an unknown tongue. His neck was in pain and lifting his hand to it found it horribly
swollen. He knew that it had a circle of black where the rope had
bruised it. His eyes felt congested; he could no longer close them. His
tongue was swollen with thirst; he relieved its fever by thrusting it
forward from between his teeth into the cold air. How softly the turf
had carpeted the untraveled avenue—he could no longer feel the roadway
beneath his feet! Doubtless, despite his suffering, he had fallen asleep while walking,
for now he sees another scene—perhaps he has merely recovered from a
delirium. He stands at the gate of his own home. All is as he left it,
and all bright and beautiful in the morning sunshine. He must have
traveled the entire night. As he pushes open the gate and passes up the
wide white walk, he sees a flutter of female garments; his wife,
looking fresh and cool and sweet, steps down from the veranda to meet
him.