“Wait here and your negro will come to you.”

“Mahomet to the mountain?  No; he is a sleepy-head, and I shall find him loitering.  Good-day, good-day!”

With a wave of his hand he left the dancing master still staring and turned Selim’s head to the east.  He rode quickly, but no longer headlong, and he scanned with deliberation the long stretch of the main road.  When at last he saw that which he sought, he backed his horse into the shadow of a great wayside walnut, drew rein, and awaited Young Isham’s approach.

The boy and the mare came steadily on, moving at quickened speed under the lowering skies.  Young Isham did not see his master until he was almost beneath the walnut tree; when he did so, he uttered a cry and well-nigh fell from the mare.

“Gawd-a-moughty, marster!”

Rand spoke without moving.  “Get down, Young Isham, and come here.”

The negro obeyed, though with shaking knees.  “Lawd hab mercy, marster, whar you come f’om?  I done lef’ you at de ford.”

“I’ll speak to you of that presently.  Whom have you passed on the road since you left the ford?  How many people and what kind of people?  Think now.”

“I ain’ pass skeerce a soul, sah.  Eberybody skurryin’ in f’om de storm.  Jes’ some niggahs wid mules, an’ a passel ob chillern, an’ a man I don’ know.  Dey ain’ stop ter speak ter me, an I ain’ stop ter speak ter dem.”

Rand leaned from his saddle and laid the butt of his riding-whip upon the boy’s shoulder.  “Look at me, Young Isham.”

“Yaas, marster.”

“You did not leave me at the ford.  We took the main road together, and we’ve been travelling together ever since, except that perhaps ten minutes ago I rode on ahead and waited for you beneath this tree.”  He raised the whip handle and brought it down heavily.  “Look at me, Young Isham,—­in the eyes.”

The boy whimpered.  “Yaas, marster.”

“We crossed the ford at the mill.”

“Yaas, marster.”

“And we kept on together by the main road.”

“We—­Yaas, marster.”

“We have travelled together all the way from Richmond, and we have travelled by the main road.  Now say what I have said.”

“Marster—­”

“Say it!”

“Don’, marster, don’!  I’ll say jes’ what you say!  We done cross de ford an’ tek de main road—­”

“Yes.”

“An’ we done keep de main road, jes’ lak dis.”

“That’s enough.  If you forget and say the wrong thing, Young Isham,—­”

“Don’, marster!  Fer de Lawd’s sake, don’ look at me lak dat!  I ain’ gwine fergit, sah,—­de Lawd Jesus know I ain’!”

Rand lifted the whip handle from his shoulder.  “Mount, then, and come on.  There’s no good in idling here.”

A few moments later they overtook and passed Mr. Pincornet, now briskly walking, kit under arm, toward his dancing class.  They bowed in passing, and Rand, turning in his saddle, looked back at the figure in faded finery.  “There’s danger there,” he thought.  “Where isn’t it now?” As he faced again toward Charlottesville, his glance fell upon Young Isham, and he saw that the boy was looking fixedly at his sleeve.