It was starlight, and a waning moon hung in the sky. I made my way
through the drive between the black shadows of the forest, and came at
length to the big gates at the entrance, locked for the night. A strange
thought of their futility struck me as I climbed the rail fence beside
them, and pushed on into the main road, the mud sucking under my shoes as
I went. As I try now to cast my memory back I can recall no fear, only a
vast sense of loneliness, and the very song of it seemed to be sung in
never ending refrain by the insects of the night. I had been alone in the
mountains before. I have crossed great strips of wilderness since, but
always there was love to go back to. Then I was leaving the only being
in the world that remained to me.

I must have walked two hours or more before I came to the mire of a
cross-road, and there I stood in a quandary of doubt as to which side led
to Charlestown.

As I lingered a light began to tremble in the heavens. A cock crew in the
distance. I sat down on a fallen log to rest. But presently, as the
light grew, I heard shouts which drew nearer and deeper and brought me to
my feet in an uncertainty of expectation. Next came the rattling of
chains, the scramble of hoofs in the mire, and here was a wagon with a
big canvas cover. Beside the straining horses was a great, burly man
with a red beard, cracking his long whip, and calling to the horses in a
strange tongue. He stopped still beside his panting animals when he saw
me, his high boots sunk in the mud.

"Gut morning, poy," he said, wiping his red face with his sleeve; "what
you do here?"