After drinking the coffee prepared by aunt Eunice, Poynter started toward the door with the intention of mounting his horse and giving information to his neighbors concerning the tragedy, but his limbs trembled and his head reeled, forcing him to catch at the door-post in order to keep from falling. A strange spell of weakness seized him, and but for the strong arm of his servant, who supported him to a chair, he would have sunk to the floor.
"Fix my bed, aunty; I guess I'll lie down for a moment. I must have bled far more than I thought. And just at the time when I should be most active, too!" he muttered, half uneasily, as the old woman departed upon her errand.
In a few moments he was lying down upon the bed, and dismissed aunt Eunice about her work. He sunk into a heavy slumber, that lasted until four in the afternoon, when he was hastily aroused by his servant, who appeared to be terribly alarmed at something.
"Well, what is up, Eunice? You look as though you'd seen the ghost of your grandmother, or something as bad," he drawled, with a yawn, as he started up in bed.
"Lord, ef 'twas on'y jest a ghos', 'pears like I'd be glad!" cried the old woman, anxiously. "Bress you, honey, dar's a right smart chance o' dem ar' critter-back fellers out yander, all a-holdin' guns an' sich like, w'at tole me was you hyar? Den I tole dem, I dunno; 'spect you done gwine away; 'cause I didn't know w'at dey wanted, an' didn't know mebbe you'd want to hide. Den a gre't big feller, no 'count w'ite trash, he said, 'G'long, dar, you 'sense o' midnight you, an' tell him to show hissef, or I brow de whull top o' y'ur head offen you!' Den I say, 'Git out, you dirty w'ite nigger'—" spluttered the woman, when Poynter, who had pulled on his boots and coat, interrupted her by asking:
"Armed horsemen, you say; did you know any of them?"
"'Deed I did so, honey. Dar's ol' Marse Reeves, 'n' Brooks 'nd dat ar' Injun feller—" began Eunice.
"What! not Polk Redlaw?"
"'Deed, fo' suah, Marse Clay, honey," persisted Eunice. "I knowed de dirty nigger, dough his face is all bloody, an' red like a b'iled beet."
Poynter did not reply, but proceeded hastily through the house and out upon the front stoop, where his appearance was hailed with an exultant shout from the crowd of armed men that filled the dooryard.