It was night when his brain cleared again. He was wrapped in blankets, lying comfortably on the ground. Overhead the branches of the trees, black against the sky, waved solemnly.
"You 'wake, massah?"
Tom started at the voice. An old negro was sitting beside him.
"Yes—what…?"
"You jes' rest quiet," said the negro. "Ev'thing's all right. Miss
Marjorie, she comin' soon."
Tom closed his eyes and began to unravel the tangle of the day's events. He could remember voices which had circled around him, babbling endlessly; two negroes who had taken off his wet clothes, put him in dry things and wrapped him in blankets; and Matty, the cook, who had soothed him and given him hot drinks. Then Marjorie had come. Twice he had awakened and found her sitting there. The afternoon was all confusion, like some half-forgotten thing of his imagination. But he was comfortable now, and he didn't care.
He drifted off into an untroubled sleep, and awoke again with the sound of voices in his ears. In the faint light of the moon, he saw two negroes squatting near him. They were talking in whispers. One of them was saying:
"Ol' Murdock's dawgs is a-cryin' and a-moanin'—"
And the other answered: "Oh, Lor'!"
"An' ol' mammy, she's a-looking at the tea grounds in a cup."