“You may go surety for Colonel Brereton,” I said; “but he is certain to repeat the offense.”
“No, seh,” she replied, in her quiet, firm tone; “the Cunnle won’t make any trouble when I’m here to do fo’ him.”
“You were one of his slaves?”
“No, seh. Cunnle Bre’eton neveh had any slaves, seh. His father, Majah Bre’eton, he had slaves one time, I guess, but when the Cunnle was bo’n, he was playing kyards fo’ a living, and he had only me. When the Cunnle’s mother died, Majah Bre’eton he went to Mizzoura, and he put the baby in my ahms, and he said to me, ‘Sabrine,’ he sez, ‘you do fo’ him.’ And I’ve done fo’ him eveh since. Sometimes he gets away from me, and then he gets kind o’ wild. He was in Sandusky a year, and in Chillicothe six months, and he was in Tiffin once, and one time in a place in the state of Massachusetts—I disremembeh the name. This is the longest time he eveh got away from me. But I always find him, and then he’s all right.”
“But you have to deal with a violent man.”
“The Cunnle won’t be violent with me, seh.”
“But you’re getting old, Aunty—how old?”
“I kind o’ lost count since I was seventy-one, seh. But I’m right spry, yet.”
“Well, my good woman,” I said, decisively, “I can’t take the responsibility of letting the Colonel go at large unless you give me some better guarantee of your ability to restrain him. What means have you of keeping him in hand?”
She hesitated a long time, smoothing the folds of her neat alpaca skirt with her strong hands. Then she said: