Mary was at the piano, playing the simple music of the south and singing the songs which were a part of the air she had breathed all her life—the folk songs of the blacks.
Col. Montjoy had the Duchess on his lap to hear "the little boy in his watch crack hickory nuts" and the monotonous cracking of the nuts mingling with the melody of the musician had put both asleep.
Mary and Edward went to the veranda, and to them across the field came the measured tread of feet, the call of the fiddler, and now and then strains of music, such as the negro prefers.
Edward proposed an excursion to witness the dance, and the girl assented gladly. She was herself a born dancer; one whose feet were set to rhythm in infancy.
They reached the long house, a spacious one-room edifice, with low rafters but a broad expanse of floor, and stood at the door. Couple after couple passed by in the grand promenade, the variety and incongruities of colors amusing Edward greatly. Every girl in passing called repeatedly to "missy," the name by which Mary was known on the plantation, and their dusky escorts bowed awkwardly and smiled.
Suddenly the lines separated and a couple began to dance. Edward, who had seen the dancers of most nations, was delighted with the abandon of these. The man pursued the girl through the ranks, she eluding him with ease, as he was purposely obstructed by every one. His object was to keep as near her as possible for the final scene. At last she reappeared in the open space and hesitating a moment, her dusky face wreathed in smiles, darted through the doorway. There was a shout as her escort followed. If he could catch her before she reëntered at the opposite door she paid the penalty. Before Edward realized the situation the girl was behind him. He stepped the wrong way, there was a collision, and ere she could recover, her pursuer had her in his arms. There was a moment's struggle; his distinct smack proved his success, and if it had not, the resounding slap from the broad hand of his captive would have betrayed matters.
On went the dance. Mary stood patting time to the music of the violin in the hands of old Morris, the presiding genius of the festival, who bent and genuflected to suit the requirements of his task. As the revel grew wilder, as it always does under the stimulus of a spectator's presence, she motioned to Edward, and entering, stood by the player.
"In all your skill," she said, "you cannot equal this." For reply the young man, taking advantage of a pause in the rout, reached over and took the well-worn instrument from the hands of the old man. There was a buzz of interest. Catching the spirit of the scene he drew the bow and gave them the wild dance music of the Hungarians. They responded enthusiastically and the player did not fail.
Then, when the tumult had reached its climax, there was a crash, and with bow in air Edward, flushed and excited, stood gazing upon the crowd. Then forty voices shouted:
"Missy! Missy!" On the impulse of the moment they cheered and clapped their hands.