“Mighty dangersome,” acquiesced the narrator, “dat’s what I ’lowed ter myse’f when I seed him.  He was arter a lump o’ dat green truck wid white berries ’pon it—­mizzletoe, dey calls its name.  When I got dar, he was comin’ down de tree holdin’ it by de stem wid he teef.  He wouldn’t fling it down, kase he’s feard he’d spile de berries.  Time he totch de groun’ good, Miss Grace, she hauled off, she did, an’ smacked his jaws ez hard ez she could stave, an’ axed him how dar’ed he skeer ‘em like dat?  An’ Mars Jim, he larfed out loud, and said:  ’Princess wanted it,’ an’ den he put de truck he’d resked his nake ter git in Miss Pocahontas’s arms, an’ she hugged it up tight, an’ went long to de house cryin’.”

Thorne moved involuntarily, and the gun in his hand struck against the trunk of the tree behind which he stood.  The negroes paused and glanced around alertly, the man with the torch swinging it backward and forward, with a muttered “What’s dat?” Nothing of any consequence; a bird, or a rabbit, perhaps—­nothing worth investigation.  The man with the bucket set his burden on the ground, and opened and shut his hand rapidly several times.  The wire of the handle had cramped his fingers.  Both men transferred their bags from the right shoulder to the left, and leaned against the tree stems to rest themselves a moment.

The elder man resumed the subject.

“Love her!  Lord-er-mussy ’pon me!  Jim Byrd was fa’rly foolish wid love.  De groun’ warn’t fitten fur Miss Pocahontas ter set her foots ’pon in his notion; he’d er liked ter spread hissef down to save her slippers.  T’want no question ‘bout lovin’ wid Mars Jim!”

“But he gone away,” objected the torch-bearer.  “I reckon Miss Pocahontas done kick him; dat how come he lef.  What he doin’ in Nexican ef he kin get what he want here?  He gone!”

“Dat ain’t nothin’.  He was bleeged ter go out yander ter git money ter buy back de old place.  Money mighty plentiful out dar, Aunt Vi’let say.  Gwine way ain’t nothin’ ter a man; he kin come back ’gin.  I went ’way ter Richmond onct myse’f ter rake up money ’nouf ter buy one mule, an’ rent er scrop o’ lan’, so ez I could marry Sarah.  Mars Jim’s comin’ back; las’ word he sed ter Aunt Vi’let, was dat.  Miss Pocahontas ain’t kick him n’other.  What she gwine kick him fur?  Mars Jim’s er likely man, an’ all de ginnerashuns o’ de Byrds an’ Masons bin marryin’ one n’other ever sence Virginny war er settle_mint_.  My ole gran’daddy, whar war ole Mr. Dabney Byrd’s kyar’ege driver, allus sed—­Lord, a-mussy! what DAT!!”

The speaker paused with his mouth open and a chilly sensation about the back, as though a lump of ice were traveling down his spine.  A sound, as of scriptural denunciation, low, but intense, had caught his ear.  A bat, circling low, had grazed Thorne’s face and caused him to throw up his hand with an impatient oath.  The wisdom of the defunct “kyar’ege driver” was overwhelmed in the flood of perturbation which seized his descendant.  The man swung his torch around nervously and peered into the darkness, conscious of a distrust of his surroundings that amounted to positive pain.  The other negro said nothing; but addressed himself to the adjustment of his burden in the manner least likely to impede retreat.