Among the colored folks this portion of the road enjoyed an evil reputation, particularly after nightfall, for in a field near by there was an ancient graveyard, and the rumor went, that the denizens thereof were of a specially unruly, not to say malicious spirit, and found pure delight in ambuscades along the road side, and in sallies upon unsuspecting travelers with results too painful for description.

“Haunts was mighty rank ’bout dar,” the negroes said, and after sundown that part of the road was destitute of attractions.  The graveyard had not been used for many years; but that only made the danger greater, for ghosts, grown bold with long immunity of office, were held capable of deeper malignity, than would be within the range of ghosts oppressed with the modesty of debutants.  The fact that the occupants of the place had, in life, been of their own race, inspired the negroes with no feeling of kinship or confidence.  They were earnestly afraid of all spirits, be they white, black, or red; but most of all of black ones, because they seemed most in league with the devil.

When, therefore, the light of the flickering pine torch fell obliquely on Thorne’s dark figure and caught a gleam from the polished mountings of his gun, and another from the brass of the cartridge belt, which to the terrified darkeys looked like a cincture of fire, they became possessed with the idea that the most malevolent of all the spirits, perhaps the devil himself, was upon them.  Calling on their Maker with more urgence than they ever did at “pray’r meetin’,” they grabbed up their belongings and addressed themselves to flight.  The bags, flopping up and down on their backs, held them to their speed, by corporeal reminder of what they had to lose if the devil should overtake them, and the molasses in the bucket slopped over the sides and sweetened the dust at every jump.  The bucket top had bounced off in the first burst and sped down the road before them, and the owner, feeling that he had no time to lose, never dreamed of stopping to look for it.  Every now and then the bucket banged against his leg causing him to feel that the evil one might be gaining, and to yell “Oh, Lawdy!  Oh, Lawdy!!” at the top of his lungs.  The torch-bearer had flung away his light, thinking to elude the devil in the darkness, and all his soul was in his heels.

Thorne laughed a little, in a mirthless fashion; but he was too miserable to be amused.  While the men talked, black jealousy had crept around the old magnolia and linked arms with him.  Twice in the same evening this name had crossed him.  Who the devil was this Jim Byrd?  These men had spoken of him as the avowed lover of Pocahontas, the man she would eventually marry.  The girl herself had admitted him to be a dear and valued friend—­a friend so dear that his going had left a blank in her life.  The power he had but now felt to be his own, suddenly appeared to be slipping into other hands.  Another sickle was sharpening for the harvest; other eyes had recognized the promise of the golden grain; other hands were ready to garner the rich sheaves.