“That is a part of the riddle,” said he.
“Are you the son?”
“That is another part of the same riddle.”
“Where was the son’s mother?” I asked.
“In the riddle—in the riddle,” he replied.
I could not unriddle the riddle, but it seemed to hint at some such villainy as I had read about in the books in my father’s library. Here was a man who had sold his son; that was enough for me. It gave me matter to dream on, and as I was a pretty heavy feeder in those days, my dreams followed hard on each other. But it isn’t worth while to relate them here, for the things that actually happened were infinitely worse than any dream could be.
As Featherstone had foretold, we camped the next night not far from the Sandhills, where the rich people of Augusta went every summer to escape the heat and malaria of the city. We might have gone on and reached Augusta during the night, but both men and mules were tired, and of the entire caravan only one wagon went forward. I shall remember the place as long as I live. In a little hollow, surrounded by live-oaks—we call them water-oaks up here—was a very bold spring, and around and about was plenty of grass for the mules. It was somewhat dry, the time being November, but it made excellent forage. On a little hill beyond the spring was a dwelling-house. I came to have a pretty good view of it afterward, but in the twilight it seemed to be a very substantial building. It was painted white and had green blinds, and it sat in the midst of a beautiful grove of magnolias and cedars. I remember, too,—it is all impressed on my mind so vividly—that the avenue leading to the house was lined on each side with Lombardy poplars, and their spindling trunks stood clearly out against the sky.
While I was helping Featherstone unhitch and unharness the mules, he suddenly remarked:—
“That’s the place.”
“What place?” I asked.