“For de Lor’s sake! hurry, Miss Petronilla,” said Cupid, in a frightened whisper. “Dar’s de awfulest storm a-comin’ to-night you ever see’d. Miss ’Silly oughtn’t ’lowed you to go froo de woods to-night.”
“Miss ’Silly, indeed! I guess she hopes I may only get my neck broke before I get home,” said Pet, shortly, as she turned her pony’s head in the direction of the bridle-path leading through the gorge.
The sure-footed steed, left to himself, securely trod the narrow path, and entered, at last, upon the forest road. Having nothing else to do, Pet began ruminating.
“If that ain’t what I call mean!” she indignantly muttered; “sending me off like an Arab, without anything to eat. The hateful, stingy old thing! I like that soft, green, good-natured Orlando, but I can’t bear her. ’Sh-h-h! softly, Starlight, my boy! there’s niggers in these woods, you know, who wouldn’t mind chawing you and me right up.”
Even while she spoke, a hand grasped her bridle-rein, and a deep, stern voice cried:
“Stop!”
At the same moment there came a vivid flash of lightning, and Pet beheld, for a second, the face of a negro black as a demon. The next instant all was deepest darkness again.
CHAPTER XIX.
PLAYING WITH EDGED TOOLS.
“Thinkest thou there dwells no courage but in breasts That set their mail against the ringing spears When helmets are struck down? Thou little knowest Of nature’s marvels.” —Mrs. Hemans.