Mrs. Pitts was hurrying down, the lamp casting grotesque shadows on the wall.
“What is it, Gideon? What is it? Did he say—?”
“Hush! It’s Frederick Douglass. He’s been hurt. Somebody’s after him!” Her husband’s words were hurried and low. He was bending over the man on the floor.
“I’ll call—” Mrs. Pitts began. Her husband caught her robe.
“Don’t call anyone. Pray God the servants heard nothing. He’s coming to!”
Mrs. Pitts was suddenly the efficient housewife.
“Some warm water,” she said, setting the lamp down, “and then we’ll get him upstairs.” She disappeared in the shadows of the hall.
There was a patter of feet on the stairway.
“What’s the matter, papa?” a child’s voice asked. “Oh!”
“Go back to bed, Helen! Mr. Douglass, are you all right?” Gideon Pitts bent over his unexpected visitor anxiously. Douglass sat up and put his hand to his head. It came away sticky. He looked around him and knew he was safe.