“Captain Murrell?” There was less of mystery now, but more of terror, and her hand stole up to her heart, and, white and slim, rested against the black fabric of her dress.
“Don't you be scared, Miss Betty!” said Hannibal.
They went silently from the house and again crossed the lawn to the terrace. Under the leafy arch which canopied them there was already the deep purple of twilight.
“Do you reckon it were Captain Murrell shot Mr. Norton, Miss Betty?” asked Hannibal in a shuddering whisper.
“Hush—Oh, hush, Hannibal! It is too awful to even speak of—” and, sobbing and half hysterical, she covered her face with her hands.
“But where are we going, Miss Betty?” asked the boy.
“I don't know, dear!” she had an agonizing sense of the night's approach and of her own utter helplessness.
“I'll tell you what, Miss Betty, let's go to the judge and Mr. Mahaffy!” said Hannibal.
“Judge Price?” She had not thought of him as a possible protector.
“Why, Miss Betty, ain't I told you he ain't afraid of nothing? We could walk to Raleigh easy if you don't want your niggers to hook up a team for you.”