“Mind? Do you mean what she was saying? I didn’t half hear it, I was thinking how I could get up that bank. And that reminds me there’s something wrong with Porley; she’s at the big pine. I am going out there to see. Cicely told me that she had tied her in some way.”
“If she did, the wench richly deserved it,” said the judge, going towards his lodge, his step stiff and slow.
“He came mighty near a stroke,” said Hollis to Paul in an undertone.
“Hadn’t you better go with him, then?”
“Oh yes; I’ll go.” He went towards the judge’s lodge. “You go right into that lodge, fool Hollis, and stay there,—stay with that unreasonable, vituperative, cantankerous old Bourbon of a judge, and—judge of Bourbon! You smooth him down, and you hearten him up, you agree with him every time; you tuck him in, you hang his old clothes over a chair, you take his shoes out, and black ’em; and you conduct yourself generally like one of his own nigs in the glorious old days of slavery—Maryland, my Maryland!” He lifted the latch of the door, and went in.
Paul, meanwhile, had gone to the big pine; when he reached it, the twilight had darkened into night. A crouching figure stood close to the trunk—Porley; she was tied by a small rope to the tree, the firm ligatures encircling her in three places—at the throat, the waist, and the ankles; in addition, her hands were tied behind her.
“Well, Porley, a good joke, isn’t it?” Paul said, as he cut the knots of the rope with his knife.
“Ah-hoo!” sobbed the girl, her fright breaking into audible expression now that aid was near.
“Mrs. Morrison thought she would see how brave you were.”
“Ah-hoo! Ah-hoo-hoo-hoo!” roared Porley, in a paroxysm of frantic weeping.