But Ole Marse would permit him to witness the ceremony with the house-negroes because of his freedom, an honor which was never shared by the field-hands, and Micajah was secretly glorying, though the glory would be short-lived, for there was the long night before him with its bedlam of joy let loose in the Quarters, and he was not to be of it. So he stood in the doorway a shiftless figure, an alien, as it were, for he was unused to the manner of the house-negroes and was abashed before them, and for the present he was not a field-hand, because of his freedom. For a moment he lost himself; then the ceremony was over; Ole Mis’s said something high and grand, and Ole Marse said something funny, and the little procession filed out. The night was close and sultry, and as he sat alone in his cabin door Micajah could hear the strains of fiddle and banjo—he was even near enough to hear the shuffling of feet. The fan-bearer was soundly snoring, after having sobbed himself to sleep, for Micajah had sternly declared “dat de slabe cain’t go whar he marster hain’t axed—you heah me, Amaziah?” As the night wore on the fun waxed louder and louder, the spell was irresistible, and Uncle Cage was almost beside himself. He had never been left out before—and this was freedom! At last the cake-walk was begun, and Micajah, forgetting his injured dignity, his position, and his broadcloth, slipped stealthily out to peep at the revellers through a chink; and there was Milly—his Milly—leading the walk with Cross-eyed Pete. Micajah dug his toes into the dust. Oh, how peacefully Milly smiled! “Dat cross-eyed houn’ is er-callin’ me outen my name,” he muttered. His Milly laughed slyly—and this was freedom! “How I ebber gwine make dat nigger know her place ergin?” he groaned. “I gwine git back an’ know mine—dat I is. I gwine gib up dis fool freedom if I libs ter see ter-morrer, sho I is; an’ I gwine meet dem niggers on ekil groun’s, an’ I gwine split dat cross-eyed nigger inter kindlin’ wood—sho I is—if I libs. An’ I gwine ter make de high an’ mighty niggers ter-night ter eat dirt ter-morrer—dat I is—_yo’ heah me_! I larn dat Milly ter laugh at her betters ’hine dey backs, if I peels ever’ hick’ry on de place—dat I is! O Lord, pity dis heah big fool nigger dat hain’t got no mo’ sense ’n ter lis’en ter de word er Satan, an’ up an’ ax Ole Marse fur dis heah freedom! I’s done wid hit—I spits hit out. Des lemme git shet uv hit, an’ I wouldn’ wipe dese ole foots on hit!” There was a movement at the door, and, fearing detection, Uncle Cage slipped away to seek uneasy dreams. Through the long hot days the work had gone on cheerfully in the new land, and now it was so nearly accomplished that the frolic was joyfully discussed.