When Harold Le Duc arrived that morning to take the old people home, the river came to meet him at the brim of the near bank, and its face was as the face of smiling innocence.
While he stood awe-stricken before the awful fact so tragically expressed in the river's bland denial, a wet dog came, and, whining, crouched at his feet. He barked softly, laid his head a moment upon his master's boot, moaned a sort of confidential note, and, looking into the air, barked again, softly.
Did he see more than he could tell? Was he trying to comfort his master? He had heard all the sweet converse of the old people on that last night, and perhaps he was saying in his poor best speech that all was well.
Mammy Hannah and Uncle Israel, having discharged their responsibility, had crossed the River together.
PART THIRD
"Oh, it 's windy,
Sweet Lucindy,
On de river-bank to-night,
An' de moontime
Beats de noontime,
When de trimblin' water 's white."
So runs the plantation love-song, and so sang a great brown fellow as, with oars over his shoulder, he strolled down "Lovers' Lane," between the bois d'arcs, toward the Mississippi levee.
He repeated it correctly until he neared the gourd-vine which marked the home of his lady, when he dropped his voice a bit and, eschewing rhyme for the greater value, sang:
"Oh, it 's windy,
Sweet Maria,
On de river-bank to-night—"