He was religiously grateful for the aid which Providence had rendered him, and when he thought how near he had stood to the brink of destruction, he realized how narrow the span between the Here and the Hereafter.

And the moral of his reflections was, that if he stood so near to the open gate of death, he ought always to live wisely and well, and ever be prepared to pass the portals which separate time from eternity.
Tom's thoughts were sad and heavy.

He could not banish from his mind the face of the rebel, as he raised his hand to his breast, where he had received his mortal wound.

That countenance, full of hate and revenge, haunted him for weeks afterwards, in the solitude of his tent, and on his midnight vigils as a sentinel.
As he sat in the boat, thinking of the events of the morning, and listening to the mournful rippling of the waters, which, to his subdued soul, sounded like the requiem of his victim, he was challenged from the shore again.
"Who comes there!" Tom jumped up, and saw a sentinel on the bank pointing his gun at him.

He surveyed the form with anxious interest; but this time he had nothing to fear, for the soldier wore the blue uniform of the United States army.
"Friend," replied he, as he grasped his paddle.
"Come ashore, or I'll put a bullet through you," added the sentinel.
"Don't do it!" said Tom, with energy.