"'Clar' to goodness, honey, chile, I was e'ena'most skeered to deaf, I jest was, now," chattered aunt Eunice, as she bustled around her patient. "I jest done went to de do' to look ef you was a-comin', w'en I see'd dem 'ar funnelly fellers a-shootin', an' den you falled down, an' I t'ought you's done dead fo' suah!"
"Well, why didn't you come and help me?"
"'Deed I was jest a-gwine, honey, so I was. I runned to de kitchen, an' got dis yere," holding up a huge basting-fork, "'nd w'en I got out ag'in, dar you was, big's life. 'Pears like, I'd a-drapped, I's so 'mazin' glad. Bress ye, honey, dear, ef dem 'a Pharoasters 'd 'a' killed you, I'd a—jest would, so dar!" spluttered the old woman, throwing her arms around Clay, and jumping up and down as she hugged him.
"Easy—easy, aunty; you hurt my arm," laughed Poynter, as he released himself, and then sunk into a chair, feeling faint from excitement and loss of blood.
"Jest looky! w'at a funnelly ole goose I is! But I's so glad, Marse Clay, dat it 'pears like I'll go clean crazy."
"I think that if you'd get me some brandy, or a cup of coffee, it would be a more sensible idea, aunt Eunice."
"Dar 'tis ag'in! Might 'a' knowed dat. But you jest sot still, honey, 'nd I'll git you it," and she trotted out of the room with an alacrity that made the entire house jar beneath her weight, while Poynter bowed his head upon the table.