Young Victor Woodville laughed gayly.
“What folly,” he said, “for your old overseer, a man of Northern origin to boot, to suspect you, of all men, of helping a Yankee in any way. Why, Uncle Charles, everybody knows that you'd annihilate 'em if you could, and that you were making good progress with the task until you got that wound.”
Colonel Woodville drew his great, white eyebrows together in his characteristic way.
“I admit, Victor, that I'm the prince of Yankee haters,” he said. “They've ruined me, and if they succeed they'll ruin our state and the whole South, too. We've fled for refuge to a hole in the ground, and yet they come thundering at the door of so poor an abode. Listen!”
They heard plainly the far rumble of the cannon. The intensity of the fire increased with the growing day. Shells and bombs were falling rapidly on Vicksburg. The face of Colonel Woodville darkened and the eyes under the white thatch burned.
“Nevertheless, Victor,” he said, “hate the Yankees as I do, and I hate them with all my heart and soul, there are some things a gentleman cannot do.”
“What for instance, Uncle?”
“He cannot break faith. He cannot do evil to those who have done good to him. He must repay benefits with benefits. He cannot permit the burden of obligation to remain upon him. Go to the door, Victor, and see if any one is lurking there.”
Young Woodville went to the entrance and returned with word that no one was near.
“Victor,” resumed Colonel Woodville, “this man Slade, who was so preposterously wrong, this common overseer from the hostile section which seeks with force to put us down, this miserable fellow who had the presumption to suspect me, lying here with a wound, received in the defense of the Confederacy, was nevertheless right.”