Carson turned to Lewis, who, hat in hand, his black face set in stony rigidity, had paused near by and stood waiting respectfully to be spoken to.
“Uncle Lewis,” he said, “we've got good news for you and Linda, but a great deal depends on its being kept secret. I must exact a sacred promise of you not to betray to a living soul by word of mouth or act what I am going to tell you. Will you promise, Lewis?”
The old man leaned totteringly forward till his gaunt fingers closed upon one of the palings of the fence; his eyes blinked in their deep cavities. He made an effort to speak, but his voice hung in his mouth. Then he coughed, cleared his throat, and slid one of his ill-shod feet backward, as he always did in bowing, and said, falteringly: “God on high know, young marster, dat I'd keep my word wid you. Old Unc' Lewis would keep his word wid you ef dey was burnin' 'im at de stake. You been de bes' friend me 'n Mam' Lindy ever had, young marster. You been de kind er friend dat is er friend. When you tried so hard t'other night ter save my boy fum dem men even when dey was shootin' at you en tryin' ter drag you down—oh, young marster, I wish you'd try me. I want ter show you how I feel down here in my heart. Dem folks is done had deir way; my boy is daid, but God know it makes it easier ter give 'im up ter have er young, high-minded white man lak you—”
“Stop, here's Mam' Linda,” Carson said. “Don't tell her now, Lewis; wait till we are inside the house; but Pete is alive and safe.”
The old man's eyes opened wide in an almost deathlike stare, and he leaned heavily against the fence.
“Oh, young marster,” he gasped, “you don't mean—you sholy can't mean—”
“Hush! not a word.” Carson cautioned him with uplifted hand, and they all looked at old Linda as she came slowly across the grass. A shudder of horror passed over Dwight at the change in her. The distorted, swollen face was that of a dead person, only faintly vitalized by some mechanical force. The great, always mysterious depths of her eyes were glowing with bestial fires. For a moment she paused near them and stood glaring with incongruous defiance as if nothing in mortal shape could mean aught but ill towards her.
“Carson has something—something very important to tell you, dear mammy,” Helen said, “but we must go inside.”
“He ain't got nothin' ter tell me dat I don't know,” Linda muttered, “lessen it is whar dey done put my chile's body. Ef you know dat, young marster—ef—”
But old Lewis had moved to her side, his face ablaze. He laid his hand forcibly on her shoulder. “Hush, 'oman!” he cried. “In de name er God, shet yo' mouf en listen ter young marster—listen ter 'im Linda, honey—hurry up—hurry up in de house!”