“Mamma is winning.”

Once we heard high words between the two, and running into the garden found the cards scattered on the grass, and the couple gone.

Of all Nick’s escapades,—­and he was continually in and out of them,—­I recall only a few of the more serious.  As I have said, he was a wild lad, sobered by none of the things which had gone to make my life, and what he took into his head to do he generally did,—­or, if balked, flew into such a rage as to make one believe he could not live.  Life was always war with him, or some semblance of a struggle.  Of his many wild doings I recall well the time when—­fired by my tales of hunting—­he went out to attack the young bull in the paddock with a bow and arrow.  It made small difference to the bull that the arrow was too blunt to enter his hide.  With a bellow that frightened the idle negroes at the slave quarters, he started for Master Nick.  I, who had been taught by my father never to run any unnecessary risk, had taken the precaution to provide as large a stone as I could comfortably throw, and took station on the fence.  As the furious animal came charging, with his head lowered, I struck him by a good fortune between the eyes, and Nicholas got over.  We were standing on the far side, watching him pawing the broken bow, when, in the crowd of frightened negroes, we discovered the parson beside us.

“David,” said he, patting me with a shaking hand, “I perceive that you have a cool head.  Our young friend here has a hot one.  Dr. Johnson may not care for Scotch blood, and yet I think a wee bit of it is not to be despised.”

I wondered whether Dr. Johnson was staying in the house, too.

How many slaves there were at Temple Bow I know not, but we used to see them coming home at night in droves, the overseers riding beside them with whips and guns.  One day a huge Congo chief, not long from Africa, nearly killed an overseer, and escaped to the swamp.  As the day fell, we heard the baying of the bloodhounds hot upon his trail.  More ominous still, a sound like a rising wind came from the direction of the quarters.  Into our little dining-room burst Mrs. Temple herself, slamming the door behind her.  Mr. Mason, who was sitting with us, rose to calm her.

“The Rebels!” she cried.  “The Rebels have taught them this, with their accursed notions of liberty and equality.  We shall all be murdered by the blacks because of the Rebels.  Oh, hell-fire is too good for them.  Have the house barred and a watch set to-night.  What shall we do?”

“I pray you compose yourself, Madame,” said the clergyman.  “We can send for the militia.”

“The militia!” she shrieked; “the Rebel militia!  They would murder us as soon as the niggers.”

“They are respectable men,” answered Mr. Mason, “and were at Fanning Hall to-day patrolling.”

“I would rather be killed by whites than blacks,” said the lady.  “But who is to go for the militia?”