Through the long hot days the work had gone on cheerfully in the new land, and now it was so nearly accomplished that the frolic was joyfully discussed.
Micajah had all along secretly resolved that he would attend the frolic, with or without a welcome, on the ground of primeval right; but the negroes, informed by Milly, or more probably by the fan-bearer, who was a most untiring carrier of tales, openly resented his intention, and now passed his cabin without a recognition, sarcastic or otherwise.
Even the fan-bearer was growing unbearably sullen; no kick or cuff could bring him out of it; his biggest flow of words failed to intimidate, and Micajah felt that his position was perilous. He more than once approached his master, with the same result—he must wait until the time was up.
It wanted but four days more to the barn dance, and here was one whole miserable week of freedom, and, alas! his freedom from freedom would come too late to save the day, so he resolved to make one more effort, and, shame-faced and miserable, Micajah once more sought his master.
The Judge knitted his brows forbiddingly.
“What is the matter, Micajah, that you want to give it up? Haven’t you got all to go with it that you wanted?”
“Yas, Ole Marse.”
“Then what the devil is the matter?”
“Ole Marse”—Micajah’s voice was very low, and his humbleness was as the dust—“I done fotch back de book, an’ I done fotch back de freedom. One hain’t no betterer dan tuther ter er nigger. Dey bofe on ’em lies ter er nigger, an’ hit hain’t nuffin but miz’ry. Dey don’ ’spec’ me no mo’; dey don’ lis’en ter me talk no mo’. Eben Milly, my ole ’oman—dat I gwine frail ’din er inch uv her life when I gits shet er freedom—done lay er spell on me: I kin feel hit in my bones. Eben de little nigger what tote de palm-leaf fan done talk sass ter me, an’ I ’low I cain’t stan’ hit!”