‘How is the sick boy, Colonel?’ I asked.

’It’s all over with him, my friend.  He died easy; but ’twas very painful to me, for I feel I have done him wrong.’

‘How so?’

’I was away all summer, and that cursed Moye sent him to the swamp to tote for the shinglers.  It killed him.’

‘Then you are not to blame,’ I replied.

‘I wish I could feel so.’

The Colonel remained with me till supper-time, evidently much depressed by the events of the morning, which had affected him more than I could have conceived possible.  I endeavored, by cheerful conversation, and by directing his mind to other topics, to cheer him, and in a measure succeeded.

While we were seated at the supper-table, the black cook entered from the kitchen,—­a one-story shanty, detached from and in the rear of the house,—­and, with a face expressive of every conceivable emotion a negro can feel,—­joy, sorrow, wonder, and fear all combined,—­exclaimed, ’O massa, massa! dear massa!  Sam, O Sam!’

‘Sam,’ said the Colonel; ‘what about Sam?’

’Why, he hab—­dear, dear massa, don’t yer, don’t yer hurt him—­he hab come back!’

If a bombshell had fallen in the room, a greater sensation could not have been produced.  Every individual arose from the table, and the Colonel, striding up and down the apartment, exclaimed,—­

‘Is he mad?  The everlasting fool!  Why in h——­ has he come back?’

‘Oh, don’t ye hurt him, massa,’ said the black cook, wringing her hands.  ‘Sam hab ben bad, bery bad, but he won’t be so no more.’

‘Stop your noise, aunty,’ said the Colonel, but with no harshness in his tone.  ‘I shall do what I think right.’

‘Send for him, David,’ said Madam P——­; ’let us hear what he has to say.  He would not come back if he meant to be ugly.’

‘Send for him, Alice!’ replied my host.  ’He’s prouder than Lucifer, and would send me word to come to him.  I will go.  Will you accompany me, Mr. K——?  You’ll hear what a runaway nigger thinks of slavery:  Sam has the gift of speech, and uses it regardless of persons.’

‘Yes, sir, I’ll go with pleasure.’

Supper being over, we went.  It was about an hour after nightfall when we emerged from the door of the mansion and took our way to the negro quarters.  The full moon had risen half way above the horizon, and the dark pines cast their shadows around the little collection of negro huts, which straggled about through the woods for the distance of a third of a mile.  It was dark, but I could distinguish the figure of a man striding along at a rapid pace a few hundred yards in advance of us.

‘Isn’t that Moye?’ I asked the Colonel, directing his attention to the receding figure.

’I reckon so; that’s his gait.  He’s had a lesson to-day that’ll do him good.’

‘I don’t like that man’s looks,’ I replied, carelessly; ’but I’ve heard of singed cats.’