A fine rain was falling; and as he went on, the end of a drizzling
afternoon dwindled rapidly into night. Across the meadows he saw the lamps
in scattered cottages twinkle brightly through the dusk which rolled like
fog down from the mountains. The road he followed sagged between two gray
hills into a narrow valley, and regaining its balance upon the farther
side, stretched over a cattle pasture into the thick cover of the woods.
As he reached the summit of the first hill, he saw the Major's coach
creeping slowly up the incline, and heard the old gentleman scolding
through the window at Congo on the box.
"My dear Major, home's the place for you," he said as he drew rein. "Is it
possible that the news hasn't reached you yet?"
Remembering Congo, he spoke cautiously, but the Major, in his anger, tossed
discretion to the winds.
"Reached me?--bless my soul!--do you take me for a ground hog?" he cried,
thrusting his red face through the window. "I met Tom Bickels four miles
back, and the horses haven't drawn breath since. But it's what I expected
all along--I was just telling Congo so--it all comes from the mistaken
tolerance of black Republicans. Let me open my doors to them to-day, and
they'll be tempting Congo to murder me in my bed to-morrow."
"Go 'way f'om yer, Ole Marster," protested Congo from the box, flicking at
the harness with his long whip.
The Governor looked a little anxiously at the negro, and then shook his
head impatiently.
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