“The look of an Indian at the stake, defying his enemies!
“The blows came thick and heavy. Not a muscle moved; while the lad who stood behind him writhed with an agony that was half fear, half sympathy. At last he could endure it no longer. Coming forward, he laid his hand, timidly, on his master’s arm.
“‘He nuvver ax me to dance, mahrster, ’deed he nuvver! For de love o’ Gaud let Marse The. ’lone, an’ gimme my shear! My back tougher’n his’n, heap tougher!’
“His master pushed him aside, but the lad came forward again, this time grasping the terrible right arm.
“‘Have mussy, mahrster, have mussy! Stop jess one minute and look at Marse The. back,—he shirt soakin’ wid blood!’
“At these words Mr. Poythress came to himself. ‘Take your coat and vest and follow me to the house, sir,’ said he.
“They found Mrs. Poythress pacing nervously up and down the front porch.
“‘He will not play any more jigs on Sunday, that I promise you. Go to your room, sir, and do not leave it again to-day.’
“The mother, divining what had happened, said nothing; but her eyes filled with tears. The boy turned his face aside, and his lips twitched as he passed her, on his way into the house. Just as he entered the door, she gave a cry of horror and sprang forward; and though the boy struggled hard to free himself, she dragged him back upon the porch.
“‘What is this, Mr. Poythress? What do you mean, sir?’ she almost shrieked.