I explained to him the extreme absurdity of this proceeding, called his
attention to the state of the weather, which, indeed, spoke for itself
so loudly that we could hardly hear each other speak, and requested
permission to withdraw. The bayonet, with mute eloquence, refused the
application.

There flashed into my mind, with more enjoyment in the retrospect than
I had experienced at the time, an adventure on a lecturing tour in
other years, when I had spent an hour in trying to scramble into a
country tavern, after bed-time, on the coldest night of winter. On
that occasion I ultimately found myself stuck midway in the window,
with my head in a temperature of 80 degrees, and my heels in a
temperature of -10 degrees, with a heavy windowsash pinioning the
small of my back. However, I had got safe out of that dilemma, and it
was time to put an end to this one,

"Call the corporal of the guard," said I at last, with dignity,
unwilling to make a night of it or to yield my incognito.

"Corporal ob de guardl" he shouted, lustily,--"Post Number Two!" while I
could hear another sentinel chuckling with laughter. This last was a
special guard, placed over a tent, with a prisoner in charge. Presently
he broke silence.

"Who am dat?" he asked, in a stage whisper. "Am he a buckra [white man]?"

"Dunno whether he been a buckra or not," responded, doggedly, my
Cerberus in uniform; "but I's bound to keep him here till de corporal ob
de guard come."