"I'd choose to be a saint, like the one in the glass winder in the church, with light shinin' from my head. I'd walk all night up and down the 'road bend,' so travellers could see the way and wagons wouldn't get stallded."
The children had shuddered and felt half afraid at this.
"But you'd git stallded yo'se'f in dat black mud—"
"An' de runaways in de canebrake 'd ketch yer—"
"An' de paterole'd shoot yer—"
"An' eve'body'd think you was a walkin' sperit, an' run away f'om yer."
So the protests had come in, though the gleaming eyes of the little negroes had shown their delight in the fantastic idea.
"But I'd walk on a cloud, like the saint in the picture," Idyl had insisted. "And my feet wouldn't touch the mud, and when the runaways looked into my face, they'd try to be good and go back to their masters. Nobody would hurt me. Tired horses would be glad to see my light, and everybody would love me."
So, first laughingly, and then as a matter of habit, she had come to be known as "Saint Idyl."
As she stands quite still, with face uplifted, out on the levee this evening, one is reminded in looking at her of the "Maid of Domremi" listening to the voices.