“What is the day of the month?” asked Mary of the spy.
They had been riding briskly along a mere cattle-path in the woods for half an hour, and had just struck into an old, unused road that promised to lead them presently into and through some fields of cotton. Alice, slumbering heavily, had been, little by little, dressed, and was now in the man’s arms. As Mary spoke they slackened pace to a quiet trot, and crossed a broad highway nearly at right angles.
“That would ’a’ been our road with the buggy,” said the man, “if we could of took things easy.” They were riding almost straight away from the sun. His dress had been changed again, and in a suit of new, dark brown homespun wool, over a pink calico shirt and white cuffs and collar, he presented the best possible picture of spruce gentility that the times would justify. “‘What day of the month,’ did you ask? I’ll never tell you, but I know it’s Friday.”
“Then it’s the eighteenth,” said Mary.
They met an old negro driving three yoke of oxen attached to a single empty cart.
“Uncle,” said the spy, “I don’t reckon the boss will mind our sort o’ ridin’ straight thoo his grove, will he?”
“Not ’tall, boss; on’y dess be so kyine an’ shet de gates behine you, sah.”
They passed those gates and many another, shutting them faithfully, and journeying on through miles of fragrant lane and fields of young cotton and corn, and stretches of wood where the squirrel scampered before them and reaches of fallow grounds still wet with dew, and patches of sedge, and old fields grown up with thickets of young trees; now pushing their horses to a rapid gallop, where they were confident of escaping notice, and now ambling leisurely, where the eyes of men afield, or of women at home, followed them with rustic scrutiny; or some straggling Confederate soldier on foot or in the saddle met them in the way.
“How far must we go before we can stop?” asked Mary.
“Jess as far’s the critters’ll take us without showin’ distress.”