"You! Malachi!"
"Yassir, I'se been a-followin' ye all de mawnin'; I see 'em tryin' to kill ye an' I tried to git to ye. I kin git through—yer needn't help me," and he squeezed himself under the raised sash. "Malachi like de snake—crawl through anywheres. An' ye ain't hurted?" he asked when he was inside. "De bressed Lord, ain't dat good! I been a-waitin' outside; I was feared dey'd see me if I tried de door."
"Where are the soldiers?"
"Gone. Ain't nobody outside at all. Mos' to de railroad by dis time, dey tells me. An' dere ain't nary soul 'bout dis place—all run away. Come 'long wid me, son—I ain't gwine ter leabe ye a minute. Marse Richard'll be waitin'. Come 'long home, son. I been a-followin' ye all de mawnin'." The tears were in his eyes now. "An' ye ain't hurted," and he felt him all over with trembling hands.
John raised himself above the oil-barrels. He had heard the strange talk and was anxiously watching the approaching figures.
"It's all right, Grant—it's our Malachi," Oliver called out in his natural voice, now that there was no danger of being overheard.
The old man stopped and lifted both hands above his head.
"Gor'-a-mighty! an' he ain't dead?" His eyes had now become accustomed to the gloom.
"No; and just think, Mally, he is my own friend. Grant, this is our
Malachi whom I told you about."
Grant stepped over the barrel and held out his hand to the old negro.
There are no class distinctions where life and death are concerned.