Then the cry went up from the negro quarters, “Timoleon’s loose! Timoleon’s loose!” The cry was echoed at the big house. The children’s father laid down the book he was reading, and went out upon the veranda, followed quickly by his wife. The grandfather rose from his easy chair and joined them. They heard the tremendous clatter of hoofs on the hard road and the screaming stallion. They saw Aaron running up the avenue, followed by Drusilla. Calamity seemed to have swooped down upon the plantation. A negro woman, bolder than the rest, had managed to run to the big house. She rushed through it, without regard for ceremony.
“Mistiss, dem blessed chillun”—
She wanted to say were riding the runaway stallion, but she sank to the floor, speechless.
“Oh, my children! my children! Where are my precious children?” cried the mother.
At that moment Aaron reached the avenue gate, opened it wide, and the black stallion cantered through it, and came galloping down the drive.
“I see the children,” said the white-haired grandfather. “They are safe. They have been giving Timoleon his exercise. See! they are laughing and waving their hands!”
The mother looked, but the sight seemed to terrify her so that she covered her face with her hands. Only for a moment, however. She looked again, thinking they were wringing their hands and crying for help. But, no! they were really laughing. In front of the yard gate there was an ornamental circle, filled with neatly trimmed box-wood, privet and acacia bushes. Coming to this circle Timoleon turned to the right and galloped around it, the children waving their hands to their mother, father and grandfather. With his waving mane and flowing tail, his arched and shining neck, and his graceful movements, the horse presented a spectacle long to be remembered.
“Why, they are riding him with a halter!” cried the father, taking fresh alarm.