"I'll take um, an' thanky, too," said the woman; "but hongry as I is, I don't b'lieve I kin eat a mou'ful un um atter what I done. I'm too mean to live!"
"Get home! get home and forget it," Aaron replied.
"Oh, I can't go thoo dem woods atter what you tol' me!" cried the woman.
"I'll go with you," said Aaron. "Come!"
"You!" The woman lifted her voice until it sounded shrill on the moist air of the morning. "You gwine dar to Gossett's? Don't you know dey er gwine ter hunt you in de mornin'? Don't you know dey got de dogs dar? Don't you know some er de niggers'll see you—an' maybe de overseer? Don't you know you can't git away fum dem dogs fer ter save yo' life?"
"Come!" said Aaron sharply. "It's late."
"Min', now! ef dey ketch you, 't ain't me dat done it," the woman insisted.
"Come!—I must be getting along," was Aaron's reply.
He went forward along the path, and though he seemed to be walking easily, the woman had as much as she could do to keep near him. Though his body swayed slightly from side to side, he seemed to be gliding along rather than walking. Ahead of him, sometimes near, sometimes far, and frequently out of sight, a dark shadow moved and flitted. It was Rambler going in a canter. A hare jumped from behind a tussock and went skipping away. It was a tempting challenge. But Rambler hardly glanced at him. "Good-by, Mr. Rabbit! I'll see you another day!"
Thus Aaron, the woman, and Rambler went to Gossett's.