It was twenty minutes to five o’clock, when an excited negro, panting and perspiring, rushed up to the back door of Sheriff Campbell’s dwelling, which stood at a little distance from the jail and somewhat farther than the latter building from the court-house.  A turbaned colored woman came to the door in response to the negro’s knock.

“Hoddy, Sis’ Nance.”

“Hoddy, Brer Sam.”

“Is de shurff in,” inquired the negro.

“Yas, Brer Sam, he ‘s eatin’ his dinner,” was the answer.

“Will yer ax ‘im ter step ter de do’ a minute, Sis’ Nance?”

The woman went into the dining-room, and a moment later the sheriff came to the door.  He was a tall, muscular man, of a ruddier complexion than is usual among Southerners.  A pair of keen, deep-set gray eyes looked out from under bushy eyebrows, and about his mouth was a masterful expression, which a full beard, once sandy in color, but now profusely sprinkled with gray, could not entirely conceal.  The day was hot; the sheriff had discarded his coat and vest, and had his white shirt open at the throat.

“What do you want, Sam?” he inquired of the negro, who stood hat in hand, wiping the moisture from his face with a ragged shirt-sleeve.

“Shurff, dey gwine ter hang de pris’ner w’at ‘s lock’ up in de jail.  Dey ‘re comin’ dis a-way now.  I wuz layin’ down on a sack er corn down at de sto’, behine a pile er flour-bairls, w’en I hearn Doc’ Cain en Kunnel Wright talkin’ erbout it.  I slip’ outen de back do’, en run here as fas’ as I could.  I hearn you say down ter de sto’ once’t dat you would n’t let nobody take a pris’ner ‘way fum you widout walkin’ over yo’ dead body, en I thought I ’d let you know ‘fo’ dey come, so yer could pertec’ de pris’ner.”

The sheriff listened calmly, but his face grew firmer, and a determined gleam lit up his gray eyes.  His frame grew more erect, and he unconsciously assumed the attitude of a soldier who momentarily expects to meet the enemy face to face.

“Much obliged, Sam,” he answered.  “I ’ll protect the prisoner.  Who ’s coming?”

“I dunno who-all is comin’,” replied the negro.  “Dere ’s Mistah McSwayne, en Doc’ Cain, en Maje’ McDonal’, en Kunnel Wright, en a heap er yuthers.  I wuz so skeered I done furgot mo’ d’n half un em.  I spec’ dey mus’ be mos’ here by dis time, so I ‘ll git outen de way, fer I don’ want nobody fer ter think I wuz mix’ up in dis business.”  The negro glanced nervously down the road toward the town, and made a movement as if to go away.

“Won’t you have some dinner first?” asked the sheriff.

The negro looked longingly in at the open door, and sniffed the appetizing odor of boiled pork and collards.

“I ain’t got no time fer ter tarry, Shurff,” he said, “but Sis’ Nance mought gin me sump’n I could kyar in my han’ en eat on de way.”

A moment later Nancy brought him a huge sandwich of split corn-pone, with a thick slice of fat bacon inserted between the halves, and a couple of baked yams.  The negro hastily replaced his ragged hat on his head, dropped the yams in the pocket of his capacious trousers, and, taking the sandwich in his hand, hurried across the road and disappeared in the woods beyond.