“They are respectable men,” answered Mr. Mason, “and were at Fanning Hall to-day patrolling.”
“I would rather be killed by whites than blacks,” said the lady. “But who is to go for the militia?”
“I will ride for them,” said Mr. Mason. It was a dark, lowering night, and spitting rain.
“And leave me defenceless!” she cried. “You do not stir, sir.”
“It is a pity,” said Mr. Mason—he was goaded to it, I suppose—“'tis a pity Mr. Riddle did not come to-night.”
She shot at him a withering look, for even in her fear she would brook no liberties. Nick spoke up:—
“I will go,” said he; “I can get through the woods to Fanning Hall—”
“And I will go with him,” I said.
“Let the brats go,” she said, and cut short Mr. Mason's expostulations. She drew Nick to her and kissed him. He wriggled away, and without more ado we climbed out of the dining-room windows into the night. Running across the lawn, we left the lights of the great house twinkling behind us in the rain. We had to pass the long line of cabins at the quarters. Three overseers with lanterns stood guard there; the cabins were dark, the wretches within silent and cowed. Thence we felt with our feet for the path across the fields, stumbled over a sty, and took our way through the black woods. I was at home here, and Nick was not to be frightened. At intervals the mournful bay of a bloodhound came to us from a distance.
“Suppose we should meet the Congo chief,” said Nick, suddenly.