“Oh, Als’on, yer jis’ got ter:  yer can’t he’p the miserbulness.  No use runnin’ ‘way:  they’d ketch yer an’ bring yer back.  Thar’s nigger-hunters an’ blood-houn’s all roun’ this yer naberhood.  Yer couldn’t git ’way ter save yer life.”

“Look yere, Lizay,” Alston said with sudden inspiration:  “le’s go tell Mos’ Hawton all ’bout it.  Ef he’s a genulman he’ll ‘ten’ ter us.  They won’t miss us till night, an’ ‘fo’ that time we’ll be in Memphis.  Yer knows the way, don’t yer?”

“Yes,” Lizay said; “an’ I reckon that’s the bes’ thing we kin do—­go tell moster an’ mistis.  But, law!  I ought er go pull off this yere ole homespun dress an’ put on my new cal’ker.”

“I reckon we ain’t got no time ter dress up,” said Alston.  “We mus’ start quick:  come ‘long.  Le’s hide our baskits fus’ whar’ the cotton-stalks is thick.”

This they did, and then started off at a brisk pace, their flight concealed by the tall cotton-plants.  They reached Memphis about eleven o’clock, and found Dr. Horton at home, having just finished his lunch.  They were admitted at once to the dining-room, where the doctor sat picking his teeth.  He had never seen Alston, as the new negroes had been bought by an agent.

“Sarvant, moster!” Alston said humbly, but with dignity.

“Howdy, moster?” was Little Lizay’s more familiar salutation.

“I’s Als’on, one yer new boys from Ol’ Virginny.”

“You’re a likely-lookin’ fellow,” said the doctor, who was given to dropping final consonants in his speech.  “I reckon I’ll hear a good report of you from Mr. Buck.  You look like you could stan’ up to work like a soldier.  But what’s brought you and Little Lizay to the city?  Anything gone wrong?”

“Yes, moster,” said Alston—­“mighty wrong.  Look yere, Mos’ Hawton:  when I come on yer plantation I made up my min’ ter sarve yer faithful—­ter wuck fer yer haud’s I could—­ter strike ev’ry lick I could fer yer.  When I hoed cawn an’ pulled fodder I went ’head er all the han’s on yer plantation.  But when I went ter pick cotton I wusn’t use ter it.  I wuckt haud’s I could, ‘fo’ day an’ arter dark.  Mos’ Hawton, I couldn’t pick a poun’ more’n I pick ter save my life.  But I wus ‘hin’ all t’other han’s.  Then Mos’ Buck wus goin’ ter flog me ef I didn’t git a hunderd:  then Little Lizay, her he’ped me unbeknownst:  ev’ry day she puts cotton in my baskit ter fetch it ter a hunderd, an’ that made her fall ‘hin’ las’ year’s pickin’; then ev’ry night she was stripped an’ cowhided; but she kep’ on he’pin’ me, an’ kep’ on gettin’ whipped.  I dun know what she dun it fer:  ’min’s me uv the Laud on the cross.”

Dr. Horton knew what she did it for.  His knightliness was touched to the quick.  The story made him wish as never before to be a better master than he had ever been to his poor people.  He asked many questions, and drew forth all the facts, Lizay telling how Alston was helping her while she was helping him.  Dr. Horton saw that here was a romance in slave-life—­that the man and woman were in love with each other.