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"Well," replied the old man, thrusting out his stiffened limb, " he ain' say much. Hit's mighty nigh unto fo' weeks sence he uz put en jail, an' dey es gointer have es trial next Chuesday." Then presently: "You bin deir, Mandy?" Mandy turned her hunted eyes upon him.

"Yes," she whispered, after awhile; "an' he druv me 'way." Silence fell upon the little group. The old woman was studying the face of the man, turned towards the ground. The other had sunk again into hopelessness above the baby. Presently Unc' 'Siah spoke :

"He do say dat dem lyyers 'low dat deir's mighty littl' chance fur 'im 'less 'n dat knife er Bill's 'd been picked up by somebody w'at uz leanin' ter our side er de case, 'cause Bill's name uz on hit ef hit uz Bill's, an' 'u'd show fur hitse'f. Plenny uv 'em seed Mandy snatch hit fum de groun', an' sum ses es how et uz Ben's an' she uz erfraid ter show hit, an' sum ses es how hit uz Bill's an' she uz er-hidin' hit 'cause she liked Bill more 'n Ben; an' so hit goes. Now, ses I, deir ain' nuth'n' en dat, an' Mandy 'll sw'ar in de court-house she flung hit en de swamp fur Ben's 'thout lookin' at hit,- des like you say, honey, but dey 'low, does dem lyyers, es how Mandy, bein' de prisoner's wife, can't sw'ar en de case. But ef de knife uz deir, ses dey, hit 'u'd tork fur hitse'f 'cause deir ain' no 'sputin' de name, an' Sam Toliver an' Bob Johnsin knowed hit by sight. You couldn't fin' hit, you reck'n, Sis Mandy ?" The woman shuddered. "No," she said, "I bin deir en de day, but de place es changed fum en de night; an' et night, I can't go deir, Unc' 'Siah! I can't go deir! An' hit ain' no use ter go en de dark, an' hit en de water." Unc' 'Siah was silent a moment. Presently he added:

"Ben ses, ses he, 'Ef Marse Bob uz heah hit 'u'd be all right.' But deir ain' no chance now, fur 'e live 'way off yander sebenty odd mile an' no railroad half-way. An' heah 't is er Thu'sday 'bout sundown." Mandy turned her face to his, but his eyes looked away, and he had given himself up to reflection. Presently he said, as if addressing no one in particular:

"My ole Mis' tell me oncet, "Siah,' ses she, des so, 'w'en de heart es sick an' lonesome, deir ain' no med'cin' like work. Ef you got ter set down an' study 'bout hit, hit's gointer eat, es dis heah sickness; but ef you es erworkin', hit gits out into suthin' else.' Lord, but she live up ter hit too; an' w'en Marse Sam uz shot et Chinck'nhominy, es dey say,

she tu'n en an' cut up cyarpets fur de sogers, an' knit socks, an' scrape lint twell bimeby hit uz all done; an' one day I seen 'er pickin' cotton in de orchud patch like er common nigger, an' I ses den, 'Ole Mis', hit 's er sin an' er shame fur you ter do like dat.' An' right deir she lif' up 'er han's, dat de sun almos' shine troo, an' say, 'Gimme work ter do, 'Siah; gimme work ter do!' An' lemme tell yer right deir too I broke down. But hit kep' 'er up, an' she ain' dead yit, but as peart as anybody. Yes, sir, work es er big t'ing for hebby eyes."

On the face of the yellow woman over her babe a thought was dawning. A new spirit shone in her eyes, and a quickening breath shook her form. As she gazed upon the old man he took a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and adjusted them. Then he drew out a worn Bible. The woman sank back again, but the thought in her eyes remained.

"Sis Mandy," said he, "let de Lord speak, fur deir 's trouble in sto' fur you an' yourn." Charlotte rested her chin upon her hand, and her knitting, which she had drawn out, dropped to the ground. The old man began, but his progress was slow. He had to spell out many words, and explain as he read :

"De Lord es my sheppud, I shall not want.' Bless de Lord fur dat! Shall not want'; you heah dat, Sis Mandy; not want fur nuth'n'. Don' care w'at hit es, you shall not want hit long, sha'n't keep on er-want'n' hit ef de Lord es yo' sheppud,-an' you es one er de flock. No, chile!

"He makes me to lay down in green pastures, 'e leads me beside de still waters, — yes, Lord, we know w'at dat means fur er sheep,- whar de grass es long an' green an' de water es cole, an' deir es shade all day long; dat's de place fur yo' sheep an' yo' lam's.

"He resto'ith my soul, he leads up de paf er de righteous fur es name' sake.' Des heah dat! Hit makes no diffunce whar dat paf es er-goin'; by de big road, or ercross de corn-rows, or troo de swamp hitse'f,- he's gointer lead de way; an' hit's all de same ef hit's day or night; hit's all one wid de Lord.

"Yea, though I walk troo de valley er de shadder er death, I'll fear no devil,—no sir-r-r! No devil gointer hu't you deir, fur deir's er han' en de shadder an' hit's more 'n er match fur him an' his kind; dat hit es!

"Fur thou art wid me, thy rod an' thy staff dey comforts me.' Oh, yes, chillun, Jesus es deir by de side er de troo berlievers, ef dey only knowed hit. An' w'en dey es come out er de valley an' de shadder, w'at den?

"Thou prepares er table fur me en de presunce uv my enemies: thou a-n-o-i-n-t-e-t-h my

head with oil, an' my cup hit runs over' Dat'll be er happy day den! Oh, yes, oh, yes, w'en de cup es full de heart es full, an' de eyes dey runs ober, 'cause uv de fullness erway down below; yes, ma'am. W'en dat tayble es spread hit'll make anybody's eyes run over; barbecued shote, br'iled chicken, fat ham, biscuits, white bread, 'simmun beer, all spread right deir en de presunce er de enemy, de ole devil hisse'f fairly bustin' wid hunger an' spite, but pow'less, pow'less 'cause de sheppud es deir ter guard de lam's.

"An' w'en hit's all done w'at ses de prophet? W'en de hard heart done lay down hits load an' de feet been en de valley an' de shadder, an' by de waters an' 'cross de pastures erfearin' nuth'n', w'at den?

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"Sholy!' ses he, ‘sholy!'—oh, hit's er great word is dat sholy,-sholy goodness an' mussy shall foller me all de days er my life, an I'll dwell den en de house er de Lord. Bless him fur de promise!"

'Siah closed his book, and drew off his glasses, and wiped them carefully upon the lining of his coat. But the young woman stood up with the new thought fairly speaking in her round brown eyes, and a new vigor trembling in her frame.

"Tek de baby, Mammy," she almost shouted, placing little Ben in the other's lap. "I'm er-goin', don't you heah ?-I'm goin' troo de valley an' de shadder an' by de waters an' 'cross de pastures twell He show me Marse Bob! I bin bline, Mammy, I bin bline, but I ain't bline now! He done op'n my eyes an' I see de way-Good-bye! Good-bye, Mammy! Good-bye, Unc' 'Siah! Keep de baby en yo' bed, Mammy, en de night, an' don't let 'im cry fur me.- En de valley an' de shadder an' by de pastures! En yo' bed, Mammy — "

She turned away. Her voice died out as she passed beyond the live-oaks. Then, and then only, did Unc' 'Siah lift up his face from his hands and fix it skyward.

"De Lord, he has spoke at las'. Hit's all right, Sis Charlotte. De Lord's han' es erreachin' out fur Ben. Dat es Bill's knife."

Charlotte spoke not. Bending until her head rested against the one ragged garment of the sleeping child, she rocked him in silence. The old man gazed upon her doubtfully, but presently he rose, and in silence too limped out across the field.

III.

ON went the young woman, her straight, strong limbs bearing her bravely; on into the great road, on through the village with its lazy groups sitting about in the afternoon shade, on past the jail, never stopping. She moved

as one in a trance, and the strange light shone from her eyes.

"En de valley an' de shadder,' Ben," she shouted, "but er-fearin' nuth'n'. An' I'm comin' back leanin' on His rod an' His staff; I'm er-comin' back." People looked at her curiously, but she stopped for none. The shadows fell; night found her upon the lonely highway. The tall pines crooned above; it seemed as though a spirit sighed from the lips of the dying man. A whippoorwill called from the depths of the forest; to her it was a voice from the past, and strange things caught at her dress as she glided by.

"En de valley an' de shadder,'" she whispered, "an' leanin' on His rod an' staff.'" No moon rose to comfort her, but a mocking-bird sang as he used to sing in the haw-bush by the cabin when the baby was rolling on its back in the sand and she was sewing. On, never faltering; tired of limb, hungry and athirst, but onward still.

At dawn of day she dropped down by a friendly door in the city's suburbs, and told her story. The hospitality of the South animates the humblest dwelling, and the humbler the roof the broader the unquestioning hospitality. Her thirst quenched, her hunger appeased, she dragged her stiffening limbs into a new road, and continued her journey. The sun came forth and parched the ground, but the trees lent her shade here and there. Thirst came back, but the sparkling brook danced across her way. Hunger too came again, yet the hospitable cabin followed it,- night; and sleep, when, far in the night, she sank in a fencecorner murmuring, "En de valley an' de shadder.'" And as she slept, nothing evil passed the sentinel that there stood guard beside her.

With the dawn the blistered feet resumed their weary way. The history of one day was the history of the next. She started on Thursday; on Monday morning she passed through the great white columns of a princely home, and told her story for the last time; and at 10 o'clock the next morning the trial of Ben Thomas for murder was to begin at Jeffersonville, in Twiggs county, seventy odd miles away.

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The evening of the same day found Mandy back in the city, and with her was a grayhaired man Marse Bob, she called him; and the people who passed him on the street touched their hats to him, and looked back as his tall form went by. A buggy was to bear him to Jeffersonville in the early morning, but for her there was work yet to be done.

"W'en you pass Black Ankle," she said to him, "I'll be deir." Before he could stop her she had gone.

Not a voice broke the stillness of the ham

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let as she entered among the brooding cabins, save the far barking of Bill Fowler's dog. She had heard that animals see spirits: was he barking at his master's ghost come back again? Her flesh crept, and she almost screamed as she trod unawares on the spot where the man died. There was no light in the little house, no sound should she enter? The wail of a baby came out to her,- a feeble wail, as of one sick or starving. She laid her hand upon the latch.

"No," she moaned, "not now. Hit 's de las' chance, de las'." She passed down into the black swamp, lying there in the clouded moon like the grave itself.

VOL. XXXV.-65.

"En de valley an' de shadder,'" she whispered, "an' er-fearin' nuth'n'.'" As she entered there, that other night came back, and its horrors rose about her. There was the bush that clasped her knees, there the crooked tree that barred the way, and there the tangled brake.

Then the lagoon, with its wide, still stretch of water, lay at her feet.

"Ben!" she called; but the name died in her throat. She raised her head again and threw the knife with all her might,-aye, for the handle seemed in her grasp as hard and bloody as on that fatal night! Yonder it will fall, she thought, straining her eyes to where the black

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night rested upon the cold, pale sheen of waters, and lo! so it seemed to fall. There came back from the carpeted gloom the same splash! She gasped, and clutched an overhanging vine. "En de valley an' de shadder, thy rod an' thy staff, an' er-fearin' nuth'n','" she whispered brokenly; and so, half moaning, she let herself down into the silent water. The chilly flood rose to her armpits, but she moved forward straight into the gloom. Once she stumbled, and the flood rolled over her, but straight on she passed with a precision seemingly supernatural. As she moved she felt with her bruised and torn feet in the soft ooze and in the slime; slowly and patiently, for she fancied she could tread every foot of the dark depths until the knife was found.

But there is a limit to human progress in Black Ankle Swamp; and just as the spot was reached to which she had calculated that her strength could have hurled the bloody weapon, the ground passed from under her feet. Frantically she clutched at a cypress knee to draw back, when instantly a sharp, swift pain ran along her arm. She had touched a snake, and he had struck his fangs into her clenched hand! She must not lose her hold; she did not. But her lips opened and sent up one wild, frenzied cry from that dreadful place,-"O my God!" But what was that? There was no serpent in her grasp; only the long, keen blade of a knife, thrust into the tender cypress. Ignorant and superstitious, her frame trembled with terror; then the truth was upon her. The weapon she had hurled out into the night had stuck where it had struck; the splash was the plunge of a startled cooter. She drew it from its rest and rushed from the place, as when a brown deer, the hounds pressing hard, breaks through the swamp and the cane and the treacherous ooze into the clear fields beyond. But gone now fatigue! The woman passed the cabin, with its crib and its memories, almost without knowing it, and took the road back to the city. It would have been as well to crouch there and wait for the buggy or to have sought the village, but wait she could not. The fever was upon her; she must move. So she ran city ward to meet the gray-haired rescuer. Mile after mile passed, hour after hour, and still he came not. Day broke, and the sun rose. A prescience of mortal danger was upon her, faintly at first, a terror at last; and mastering the fevered energy of her great struggle, it slew her strength and hurled her by the wayside, to lie with her hunted eyes fixed upon the tree-arched lane overhead.

As thus she lay, an old man riding a flying gray horse rose in the shadowed light of the lane and presently burst into the full sunlight there before her. The thundering feet of the

animal were almost upon her as she staggered dizzily to her feet and thrust upward the knife. Wonder shone in the face of the rider as, divining the truth, he caught the weapon and passed swiftly from her view. A smile came over her wan face. "En de valley an' de shadder,'" she whispered feebly, then set her feet towards home.

Tired? Yes, tired near unto death, but leaning upon a rod and a staff that mortal vision could not compass.

IV.

It was a sultry noon, and Jeffersonville was brisk. As Jeffersonville is brisk only during the court week, when the lawyers from Macon ride down to look after the warehousemen's mortgages, and the leading attorneys from the adjoining counties run over to look after the Macon lawyers and attend to the criminal docket, it may be inferred that court was in session.

About the large, white, square frame building with its green blinds and three entrances, little groups of farmers were gathered and many unhitched teams were visible. Within the one great room that takes up the whole of the first floor, and from which ascend steps to the various county offices above, were the usual court-house habitués,-jurors who hope in vain to "get off," and citizens of limited income who yet hope to " get on." In front of the door was the judge's elevated desk, with the clerk lower down, whose feet rested in a chair while his mouth twisted a tooth-pick. The midday meal had just ended, and the court had not reëntered. To the right and left were the jury benches. The front half of the room was devoted to the Bar, which by courtesy included all leading citizens, and the rear to negroes and the promiscuous crowd on curiosity bent.

Apparently there was nothing exciting on hand just then, though a murder trial had been interrupted by a temporary adjournment. But the defendant was a negro, and a negro murderer is not a novelty. While the court was assembling, the curious might have noted the prisoner's points. His face, if it had any marked characteristics, was noted chiefly for its singularly inexpressive lines, and his attitude was one of supreme indifference. His stout, heavy frame was clad in a common jean suit stained with months of wear, and his kinky hair was liberally sprinkled over with gray. He sat quietly in his place, not even affecting stolidity, but suffering his eyes to roam from face to face as the genial conversation drifted about in the group around him. He was evidently not impressed by any sense of peril, though when the court had adjourned, a clear

case of murder had been proved against him, and only his statement and the argument remained.

Slowly the court assembled. The prisoner's counsel had introduced no testimony. A man had been stabbed by his client, had fallen dead, his hand clasped over the wound; and from beneath this hand, when convulsively loosened, a knife had dropped, which the defendant's wife seized and concealed. This had been proved by the state's witnesses.

The prisoner took the stand to make his statement. He declared emphatically that the deceased, knife in hand, had assaulted him and that he had killed him in self-defense; that the knife which fell from the relaxing hand was the dead man's. He told the story simply, and as he began it a tall, thick-set gentleman in a gray suit, with iron-gray hair, and walking with the aid of a stout stick, entered the room and stood silent by the door,-heard him through, losing never a word. As the prisoner resumed his seat the new-comer entered within the rail. He shook hands gravely with several of the older lawyers, and took the hand that the court extended over the desk. Then he turned and, to the astonishment of every one, shook hands with the defendant, into whose face a light had suddenly dawned, which resolved itself into a broad, silent grin. This done, the old gentleman seated himself near the defendant's lawyer, and, resting his hand upon his massive cane, listened attentively to the speech.

The speaker was not verbose. He rapidly summed up, and laid his case before the jury in its best light. Really there was not a great deal to say, and he soon reached his peroration. He pictured the blasted home of the poor negro, his wife and babe deprived of his labor, and dwelt long upon the good name he had always borne. In the midst of the most eloquent periods, wherein he referred to the prisoner "sitting before you, gentlemen of the jury, broken-hearted and borne down by the weight of this horrible tragedy," he turned and extended his hand to where his client sat. A sight met his glance that sent the flush of confusion to his face and started a ripple of laughter around the room. The "brokenhearted" was calmly munching away on an enormous ginger-cake, the liberal moon in which proved the vigor of his appetite. The eloquence of the speaker was fatally chilled. He stammered, repeated, hesitated, and was lost. After an awkward summing up, he took his hat and books and precipitately retired to a secluded part of the room. He had been appointed by the court to defend the prisoner and had made considerable preparation, even to the extent of training his client when to weep.

The solicitor arose, and with a few cold words swept away the cobwebs of the case. The man had stabbed another wantonly. If the knife was the property of the deceased, why was it not produced in court? — the defendant's wife had picked it up.

He passed the case to the jury, and the judge prepared to deliver his charge, when the old gentleman in gray rose to his feet.

"If your Honor please," he said in a deep tone, the honesty and purpose of which drew every eye upon him," the prisoner is entitled to the closing, and in the absence of other counsel I beg that you mark my name for the defense. With the permission of my young friend who has so cleverly stated the defense, I will speak upon the case."

"Mr. Clerk," said the court, "mark General Robert Thomas for the defense." The silence was absolute. The jurymen moved in their seats. Something new was coming. The old gentleman laid his hat and stick upon the table, and drawing himself up to his great height fixed his bright eye upon first one and then another of the jury, looking down into their very hearts. Only this old man, grim, gray, and majestically defiant, stood between the negro behind him and the grave. The fact seemed to speak out of the silence to every man on that bench. Suddenly his lips opened, and he said with quick but quiet energy:

"The knife that was found by the dead man's side was his own. He had drawn it before he was stabbed. Ben Thomas is a brave man, a strong man; he would not have used a weapon upon him unarmed!" As he spoke he drew from his bosom a long, keen knife, and gently rested its point upon the table. The solicitor's watchful eye was upon him. The attention of all was gained, and the silence was intense. "It has been asked, Where is the dead man's knife? Let me give you my theory: When Bill Fowler staggered back under the blow of Ben Thomas, clutching his wound, and the knife fell to the ground, the lightning's flash was not quicker than the change born in a moment in the bosom of that erring woman, the unwitting cause of the tragedy. Up to that moment she had been weak and yielding; she had turned aside from the little home, that should have been her all, to gamble with strange men; to tread the dangerous paths which beset the one safe road a true woman's feet may know. It had thrown a shadow over the humble home; the husband drunk upon its porch was the mute evidence of its presence. In the awful moment of that tragedy, when the dancers stood horrified, this woman became, as by an inspiration, a wife again. Deceived herself, she caught up

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