Rand spoke without moving. "Get down, Young Isham, and come here."
The negro obeyed, though with shaking knees. "Lawd hab mercy, marster, whar you come f'om? I done lef' you at de ford."
"I'll speak to you of that presently. Whom have you passed on the road since you left the ford? How many people and what kind of people? Think now."
"I ain' pass skeerce a soul, sah. Eberybody skurryin' in f'om de storm. Jes' some niggahs wid mules, an' a passel ob chillern, an' a man I don' know. Dey ain' stop ter speak ter me, an I ain' stop ter speak ter dem."
Rand leaned from his saddle and laid the butt of his riding-whip upon the boy's shoulder. "Look at me, Young Isham."
"Yaas, marster."
"You did not leave me at the ford. We took the main road together, and we've been travelling together ever since, except that perhaps ten minutes ago I rode on ahead and waited for you beneath this tree." He raised the whip handle and brought it down heavily. "Look at me, Young Isham,—in the eyes."
The boy whimpered. "Yaas, marster."
"We crossed the ford at the mill."
"Yaas, marster."