"You're my prisoners. Don't make any resistance."

The rebels were astonished, and the man who carried the mail-bags threw
them down and held his arms above his head, in token of surrender. But
the other, after regarding the officer for a moment, as if to make sure
that it was a human being with whom he had to deal, dropped his oars,
and before his captor was aware of his intention, drew a pistol and
fired. Frank felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder, and the revolver
which he held in that hand fell from his grasp. He had received his
first wound, but although thoroughly frightened, he did not lose his
presence of mind. If he had, he would soon have been recalled to a sense
of his dangerous situation, for the rebel again cocked his revolver; but
this time Frank fired first, and the rebel sank to the ground with a
loud yell. In an instant Frank turned upon the other; but he appeared to
be too much under the influence of fear to lend his comrade any
assistance.

All thought of concealment was now out of the question. The rebels in
the house had, of course, been alarmed, and Frank's only chance for
escape with his prisoner and the mail was to reach the cutter as soon as
possible, and pull off to the vessel. Hastily relieving the prisoner of
his weapons, he directed him to pick up the mail and follow the course
he pointed out.

The prisoner did as he was ordered; but they had not gone far when a
loud yelling announced that the rebels in the house had been alarmed,
and were in pursuit. Frank kept close behind his prisoner, who, through
fear of the revolver, ran at a rapid rate, but they had further to run
to reach the cutter than the guerrillas, and the latter gained rapidly.