At such an extraordinary and unceremonious demand the knight flushed angrily, frowned, made an expressive gesture with his lips and his nose which suggestively indicated that there was something offensive in the air between the wind and his gentility, ending the pantomime by finding a pass and handing it over to his “nigger,” then—­not deigning to speak—­motioned him and it to the threatening figure.  As this black man came forward, Brooks, looking at him a moment, cried excitedly, “By Jove! it’s Sam.”

“No?  Hunt’s Sam?”

“Yes, the very same; and I suppose that’s his cantankerous old master.”

Surrey ran forward to Jim, for the three had fallen back when the carriage came near, and said a few sentences to him quickly and earnestly.

“All right, Colonel! just as you please,” he replied.  “You leave it to me; I’ll fix him.”  Then, turning to Sam, who stood waiting, demanded, “Well, have you got it?”

“Yes, massa.”

“Fork over,”—­and looking at it a moment pronounced “All right!  Move on!” elucidating the remark by a jerk at the coat-collar of the unsuspecting Sam, which sent him whirling up the road at a fine but uncomfortable rate of speed.

“Now, sir, what do you want?” addressing the astounded chevalier, who sat speechlessly observant of this unlooked-for proceeding.

“Want?” cried the irate Virginian, his anger loosening his tongue, “want?  I want to go on, of course; that was my pass.”

“Was it now?  I want to know! that’s singular!  Why didn’t you offer it yourself then?”

“Because I thought my nigger a fitter person to parley with a Lincoln vandal,” loftily responded his eminence.

“That’s kind of you, I’m sure.  Sorry I can’t oblige you in return,—­very; but you’ll just have to turn tail and drive back again.  That bit of paper says ‘Pass the bearer,’ and the bearer’s already passed.  You can’t get two men through this picket on one man’s pass, not if one is a nigger and t’other a skunk; so, sir, face about, march!”

This was an unprepared-for dilemma.  Mr. V. looked at the face of the “Lincoln vandal,” but saw there no sign of relenting; then into the distance whither he was anxiously desirous to tend; glanced reflectively at the bayonet in the centre and the narrow space on either side the road; and finally called to his black man to come back.

Sam approached with reluctance, and fell back with alacrity when the glittering steel was brandished towards his own breast.

“Where’s your pass, sirrah?” demanded Jim, with asperity.

“Here, massa,” said the chattel, presenting the same one which had already been examined.

“Won’t do,” said Jim.  “Can’t come that game over this child.  That passes you to Fairfax,—­can’t get any one from Fairfax on that ticket.  Come,” flourishing the shooting-stick once more, “move along”; which Sam proceeded to do with extraordinary readiness.