and beyond the possibility of pointing out his place.

The brazier in the west snapped asunder suddenly, and a single forked
flame shot above the jagged pines and went out in the dove-coloured
clouds. In a huge oak beyond the rail fence there was a harsh rustling
of wings where a flock of buzzards settled to roost.

"Yes, Lord, she wuz dead en buried," repeated Uncle Ish slowly. "En dar
ain' none like her lef' roun' yer now. Dis yer little Euginny is des'
de spit er her ma, en it 'ud mek Ole Miss tu'n in her grave ter hear
tell 'bout her gwines on. De quality en de po' folks is all de same ter
her. She ain' no mo' un inspecter er pussons den de Lord is--ef Ole Miss
wuz 'live, I reckon she'd lam 'er twel she wuz black en blue--"

"Is she so very bad?" asked Nicholas in an awed voice.

Uncle Ish turned upon him reprovingly.

"Bad!" he repeated. "Who gwine call Ole Miss' gran'chile bad? I don't
reckon it's dese yer new come folks es hev des' sprouted outer de dut es
is gwine ter--"

At this instant the sound of a vehicle reached them, gaining upon them
from the direction of Kingsborough, and they fell to one side of the
road, leaving room for the horses to pass. It was the Battle carriage,
rolling heavily on its aged wheels and creaking beneath the general's
weight.

"Howdy, Marse Tom!" called Uncle Ishmael. The general responded
good-naturedly, and the carriage passed on, but, before turning into the