At the bend of the road, on the very verge of the hill, he checked his horse so suddenly as almost to throw him back on his haunches. A sudden chill seized him, followed by a rush that sent the blood tingling to the roots of his hair. Then he stood up in his stirrups as if to see the better.
Below, against the background of ragged trees, stood two gaunt chimneys. All about was blackened grass and half-burned timbers.
Derwood Manor had been burned to the ground!
Staggered by the sight, almost reeling from the saddle, he drove the spurs into his horse, dashed through the ruined gate, and drew rein at the one unburned cabin. A young negro woman stood in the door.
For an instant he could hardly trust himself to speak.
“I am Mr. Gregg,” he said in a choking voice, “and was here ten years ago. When did this happen?” and he pointed to the blackened ruins. He had thrown himself from his saddle and stood looking into her face, the bridle in his hand.
“In de summer time—las’ August, I think.”
“Where’s your mistress? Was she here when the house was burned?”
“I ain’t got no mist’ess—not now. Oh, you mean de young mist’ess what used to lib here? Aunt Dinah cooked for ’em—she b’longed to ’em.”
“Yes, yes,” urged Gregg.