“Mahsa,” said he, humbly, right in my ear.

I sat bolt upright; so did he.

“Speak low,” said I; “tell me who you are.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you; what is your name?”

“My name Nick.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you; what are you doing here?”

“I’se des’ a-restin’, mahsa; I’se mighty tired.”

“You are hiding from the soldiers.”

“What sojers, mahsa?”

Clearly Nick was no simpleton; he was gaining time; he might not yet know which side I belonged to.  I must end this matter.  The night was cool.  I had no blanket or overcoat.  While walking I had been warm, but now I was getting chilly.

Yet, after all, suppose Nick was not a friend.  However, such, a supposition was heterodox; every slave must desire freedom; a slave who does not wish to be free is an impossibility.

“Who were the soldiers who rode by just now?”

“I dunno, mahsa.”

“Then, why did you hide from them?”

“Who, me?”

“Yes; why did you run and hide?”

“De s’caze I dunno who dey is.”

This was very simple; but it did not relieve the complication.  I must be the first to declare myself.

“Were they not—­” I checked myself in time, I was going to say rebels, but thought better of it; the word would declare my sympathies.  I was not so ready, after all.

“W’at dat you gwine to say, mahsa?”

Neither was Nick ready to speak first; he was a quick-witted negro.

“I was going to ask if they were Southern soldiers.”

“You dunno who dey is, mahsa?”

Yes; Nick was sharp; I must be discreet now, and wary—­more so.  I knew that many Confederate officers had favourite slaves as camp servants, slaves whom they thought so attached to them as to be trustworthy.  Who could know, after all, that there were no exceptions amongst slaves?  My doubts became so keen that I should not have believed Nick on his oath.  He might tell me a lie with the purpose of leading me into a rebel camp.  I must get rid of him somehow.

“Mahsa,” said Nick, “is you got any ’bacco?”

“No” said I; then, “yes, I have some smoking tobacco.”

“Dat’s mighty good hitse’f; won’t you please, sa’, gimme a little?”

I was not a smoker, but I knew that there was a little loose tobacco in one of my pockets; how it came to be there I did not know.

“Thankee; mahsa; dis ’bacoo makes me bleeve you is a—­” Nick hesitated,

“A what?”

“A good man,” said Nick.

“Nick,” I said, “I want to go up the road.”

“W’at fur you gwine up de road, mahsa?”

“I want to see some people up there.”

Nick did not reply.  Could he fear that I was wanting to take him into the Southern lines?  It looked so.

The thought almost took away any fear I yet had that he might betray me. 
His hesitation was assuring.