Presently he reached a negro hut—the first belonging to the Bradner plantation. The door stood wide open, the rain beating far in over the sill. A brief survey convinced the young captain that the abode was deserted.
"The negroes have grown scared, and run for it," he mused, as he continued on his way. "Hullo, there's another cabin, and another. I've struck some village, I reckon—or a plantation. If somebody would only appear—ah!"
Through the low-hanging trees he had caught sight of the mansion, standing between an avenue of pines. To the front was a path of sand, and to the rear a small brook. The fields were on the other side of the brook.
"That looks as deserted as were those cabins," thought Artie, when he saw a woman pass hastily by one of the parlor windows. Concluding that the men were off to the war, and that the lady was the only person left at home, he turned up the sandy path and rode to the front porch, where he dismounted, and used the heavy brass knocker attached to the oaken door.
His arrival had been noticed, yet it was several minutes before anybody answered his summons. In the meantime he heard a spirited murmur of voices, as though two persons in the hallway were discussing the situation.
It was Mrs. Dick Bradner who let him in,—a short, stout woman of fifty, with piercing black eyes and jet-black hair. Her skin was as dark as that of a mulatto, and her features were by no means prepossessing.
"Well?" she snapped, as she threw back the door.
"I stopped for a bit of information," replied Artie, as he bowed and came into the hallway, a wide affair, running directly through to the rear.
"What is it you wish to know?" was the short query, as snappy as her first greeting had been.
"I am a bit mixed on the roads. There is a split about an eighth of a mile above here, and I would like to know if this is the regular road, or if the other road is."