By this time the guests were crowding around the corner where Nan and Billy had ensconced themselves for what they thought was to be a quiet little supper.
“’Cited! I tell you, you’d better git a move on you, you count and you secondary. The niggers is planning no good fur Grantly this night.”
“What negroes?” asked the count.
“’Tain’t no diffunce what niggers! You git out that little red devil of a mobile an’ you licksplit ter Grantly as fas’ as you kin, an’ you take mo’n one gun.”
If everybody had not been wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, they would have been amused to see this ignorant country black girl handing out orders to the Count de Lestis as though she were a duchess and he a stable boy.
The count motioned to Herz and they turned and left the room.
“I get in on this!” cried Lewis Somerville.
“And I! And I!” from every male throat in the room.
Many of the farmers had pistols with them, deeming it more prudent to go armed on midnight drives through the lonely districts. Mrs. Carter fainted when it was explained to her where her daughter had gone and what the danger was. For once in her life, however, her husband had no thought for her. He left her to the ministrations of the farmer’s wife in the stiff green silk, and hastened out to climb on the running-board of the count’s little car, which was already under way.
In what seemed like a moment since the poor Chloe had dropped her tray, there was not a single white male left at Weston, except Bobby Carter and he was only left because Lucy held him, scratching and fighting to go to the rescue of his precious sister. Even the musicians from Richmond had joined the posse. The negro waiters stepped gingerly around with many superior airs, congratulating themselves that they were as they were and not as the ignorant country blacks.