“Oh, of course there are mean men everywhere,” Harriot explained. “Father says the worst treated servants are those that are owned by other negroes.”
“By other negroes,” Dorothea echoed in amazement. “You mean that there are blacks who have slaves?”
Harriot nodded indifferently. This was no new idea to her and she could not quite understand Dorothea’s surprise.
“Why, there isn’t anything a negro would rather have than a slave of his own,” she remarked. “Father says there are African tribes that were slave-owners long before—”
“Yes, but they are savages and don’t know any better,” Dorothea interrupted.
Both girls entirely lost the significance of this remark, for by this time a company of horsemen had galloped into the May place and were pulling up on the drive.
The cousins, looking out of the window, could see the forms of mounted men and huge dogs moving here and there across the lawns below them. The low whines of the eager hounds as they snuffed about could be heard above the murmured talk among the men and the restless trampling of the horses. Whether these great beasts, trained for man-hunting, were after a slave or an escaping Union soldier she as yet did not know; but in either case it seemed a very horrible proceeding to Dorothea, and by so much her sympathy for the Southern cause was weakened.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a thundering knock at the front door, which echoed through the house, and in a moment there was a murmur of voices growing increasingly distinct. Hal May and Val Tracy could be heard talking earnestly to a stranger, but in so low a tone that the girls could not make out what it was all about. On either side of them, however, windows were opening and they knew that all the other members of the household were on the alert.
“Oh, I wish I were dressed!” Harriot cried, fidgeting about impatiently. “I wonder what they want here, anyway? They know we wouldn’t help to run off anybody’s servants. I’m going to slip something on and go down.” She ran out of the room, leaving Dorothea alone at the window.
“Ladies,” came the voice of Val Tracy as he stepped out on the lawn and called up to those at the windows above the gallery, “these gentlemen are out after a Yankee officer who has escaped from Andersonville. We have assured them that none of us has seen any one lurking about the place, but they insist that the fugitive was traced here and that they will feel more content if we inquire of you ladies whether or not you have seen anything out of the ordinary to-night?”