The woman looked at her wonderingly.
"Why, Miss Genevieve—Poor, little lamb."
"Nannie, Nannie." She made a tremendous effort to control herself. "What was it you were going to say?"
"The scream, Miss. In the night. I rushed down. I knocked at his door. He wouldn't let me in. He was moaning, Miss. And cursing. And moaning. He was swearing about a knife. I listened, Miss—at the keyhole. I was scared. He kept cursing and moaning about a knife; about his arm—"
"Nannie—"
She whispered the word beneath her breath. "Yes, Miss. Cut in the arm. He would have it that way. And he wouldn't let me in. I waited for hours. And this morning I went into his room myself. He was in his shirt-sleeves. I pretended I wanted the linen for the wash. I was looking for blood, Miss. Not a drop did I find. Not a pin prick stain. But I seen him bandaging his arm; right in front of me he did it. And then I seen him rip the bandage off."
"Nannie—"
"It's his reason I fear for, Miss. He turns to me and asks me if I can see the cut."
"Yes? Yes, Nannie?"
"He shows me his arm. And, Miss—"