“’Sblood, Nick Temple!” he cried, “what are you doing here with that big Congo for a dog?  The sight of him frightens me.”

The negro, indeed, was a sight to frighten one.  The black mud of the swamps was caked on him, and his flesh was torn by brambles.

“He ran away,” said Nick; “and I am taking him home.”

“You—­you are taking him home!” sputtered Mr. Fanning.

“Do you want to see him act?” said Nick.  And without waiting for a reply he filled the hall with a dozen monkeys.  Mr. Fanning leaped back into a doorway, but the chief prostrated himself on the floor.  “Now do you believe I can take him home?” said Nick.

“’Swounds!” said Mr. Fanning, when he had his breath.  “You beat the devil, Nicholas Temple.  The next time you come to call I pray you leave your travelling show at home.”

“Mamma sent me for the militia,” said Nick.

“She did!” said Mr. Fanning, looking grim.  “An insurrection is a bad thing, but there was no danger for two lads in the woods, I suppose.”

“There’s no danger anyway,” said Nick.  “The niggers are all scared to death.”

Mr. Fanning burst out into a loud laugh, stopped suddenly, sat down, and took Nick on his knee.  It was an incongruous scene.  Mr. Fanning almost cried.

“Bless your soul,” he said, “but you are a lad.  Would to God I had you instead of—­”

He paused abruptly.

“I must go home,” said Nick; “she will be worried.”

“She will be worried!” cried Mr. Fanning, in a burst of anger.  Then he said:  “You shall have the militia.  You shall have the militia.”  He rang a bell and sent his steward for the captain, a gawky country farmer, who gave a gasp when he came upon the scene in the hall.

“And mind,” said Nick to the captain, “you are to keep your men away from him, or he will kill one of them.”

The captain grinned at him curiously.

“I reckon I won’t have to tell them to keep away,” said he.

Mr. Fanning started us off for the walk with pockets filled with sweetmeats, which we nibbled on the way back.  We made a queer procession, Nick and I striding ahead to show the path, followed by the now servile chief, and after him the captain and his twenty men in single file.  It was midnight when we saw the lights of Temple Bow through the trees.  One of the tired overseers met us near the kitchen.  When he perceived the Congo his face lighted up with rage, and he instinctively reached for his whip.  But the chief stood before him, immovable, with arms folded, and a look on his face that meant danger.

“He will kill you, Emory,” said Nick; “he will kill you if you touch him.”

Emory dropped his hand, limply.

“He will go to work in the morning,” said Nick; “but mind you, not a lash.”

“Very good, Master Nick,” said the man; “but who’s to get him in his cabin?”

“I will,” said Nick.  He beckoned to the Congo, who followed him over to quarters and went in at his door without a protest.