Dan turned to the door.
“What time is it, Big Abel?” he called to the negro outside.
“Hit's goin' on eight o'clock, suh,” replied Big Abel, staring at the west. “De little star he shoots up moughty near eight, en dar he is a-comin'.”
“Hosea is there by now,” said the Governor, turning his head on a pillow of pine needles. “He started this morning, and I told him to change horses upon the road and eat in the saddle. Yes, he is there by now and Julia is on the way. Am I growing weaker, do you think? There is a little brandy on the chair, give me a few drops—we must make it last all night.”
After taking the brandy he slept a little, and awaking quietly, looked at Dan with dazed eyes.
“Who is it?” he asked, stretching out his hand. “Why, I thought Dick Wythe was dead.”
Dan bent over him, smoothing the hair from his brow with hands that were gentle as a woman's.
“Surely you haven't forgotten me,” he said.
“No—no, I remember, but it is dark, too dark. Why doesn't Shadrach bring the candles? And we might as well have a blaze in the fireplace to-night. It has grown chilly; there'll be a white frost before morning.”
There was a basket of resinous pine beside the hearth, and Dan kindled a fire from a handful of rich knots. As the flames shot up, the rough little cabin grew more cheerful, and the Governor laughed softly lying on his pallet.