"It's not so bad."

"You sho wuz ressless in yo sleep--a-talkin' an' a-turnin' an' sayin'
you mustn't keep de cote waitin'. I done sit by you ter keep de kivers
on twill de cock crow. What you reckon you said to me? You said, 'Is dat
you, Gineral Buonaparte?'"

Rand laughed, "Did you say, 'Yes, sire my brother?'"

"No, sah, I say, 'Hit's Joab, Marse Lewis.' I gwine now ter git de water
to shave you ef dar's fire in de kitchen. Folks git up moughty late at
Fontenoy. I don' know when I gwine git yo breakfast."

An hour later appeared the master of the house, red and jovial,
solicitous for his guest's comfort, and prodigal of suggestions for his
ease and entertainment. Not until Rand was well and gone from Fontenoy
would Colonel Dick let his mind rest upon the indubitable fact that here
had been an upstart and an enemy. Hard upon the Colonel's steps came the
doctor. Arm and ankle and wounded head were doing well--there was no
fever to speak of--Mr. Rand had an unabused constitution and would make
a rapid recovery. For precaution's sake, best let a little blood. Rest,
gruel, and quiet, and in a few days Mr. Rand would be downstairs with
the ladies. The blood was let, and the doctor rode away. Joab and the
culprit Selim went on Rand's errands to the town and to the home on the
Three-Notched Road. Mammy Chloe, in white apron and kerchief and
coloured turban, presented herself with a curtsy, delivered kindly
messages from the ladies of the house, and sat down with her sewing in
the little adjoining room. The morning advanced, sunny and peaceful,
with vague sounds, faint laughter from distant rooms, droning of bees,
and rustling of cool poplar leaves.