Whatever response the teamsters might have made was drowned by Featherstone’s fiddle, which plunged suddenly into the wild and plaintive strains of a plantation melody. The mulatto woman stood like one entranced; she caught her breath, drew back a few steps, stretched forth her ebony arms, and cried out:—
“Who de name er God is dat man?”
With that Featherstone stopped his playing, fixed his eyes on the woman, and exclaimed:—
“Where’s Duncan?”
For a moment the woman stood like one paralyzed. She gasped for breath, her arms jerked convulsively, and there was a twitching of the muscles of her face pitiful to behold; then she rushed forward and fell on her knees at the fiddler’s feet, hugging his legs with her arms.
“Honey, who is you?” she cried in a loud voice. “In de name er de Lord, who is you! Does you know me? Say, honey, does you?”
Featherstone looked at the writhing woman serenely.
“Come, now,” he said, “I ask you once more, Where’s Duncan?”