At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 70: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AT A GIRI’S MERCY. 59 reddy et yo’ winder. I’ll be underneath, an’ when I tap ’gainst ther wall like this,’’ he struck lightly the stone side of the house near them, ‘‘yo’se ter creep down stairs still’s yo’ kin, an’ meet me here. There’s ten 0’ us a-goin ; we’s got a boat hid in ther brush below in the ribber, an’ we’s ter git there ‘thout mo’ noise ’n we kin help, min’ yo’ dat, else de sojers’ll git us shuah. An’ as there’s ter be mos’ly men, Lola, mebby it’d be bes’ fer yo’ ter go ’long as one, tell we’s git some’ers whar dere ain’t no danger, fer yo’ couldn’t run nohow as yo’d want ter run ef ther sojers did git after us, with yo’ long gowns a-trailin’ arfter us. Don’ yo’ breathe dis to no one, an’ be reddy sharp. Yo’ know de consequences 0’ bein’ foun’ out.”’ A cold terror struck the girl; she shivered in the heat of the summer night; her hand was like ice as it touched his, and she merely nodded—she dared not speak. Knew? Ay, truly she knew. There had been such things before, and the end was death —death—shot like brutes or mad, wild creatures, by men who had no mercy for their defenseless slaves, who set the blood-hounds on their tracks and hunted them to death. Yes, she knew—but death, after all —death, even here in the morning of her life—death was preferable to life with chains cutting her heart and her hopes. A slow smile—so slow and sad in its intensity that the man’s heart throbbed with a new and deeper determination to win in the struggle for her sake—broke the stony lines of her face; the color returned to the dark cheeks, and the ey es were glow- ing with dawning hope. “T ain’t ’fraid,’? she said, and a mellow laugh stirred her parted lips. ‘“‘After all, Mr. Brown, wes cComicbooks (e(@) m a)