“Gwine ter fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby; yas, Lord, gwine ter fetch hit back—hain’t yo’, honey? Gwine ter lif’ dem putty wings an’ fly away!” The moon rose high and waned, but still the Other Maumer, shivering with the cold and damp, sat on the river-bank. The big brown butterflies had been gone so long; she was waiting for them to return. She had fought them and driven them away, but now she wanted them to come back and bring the soul of Cindy’s baby. The cry of a child or a cat somewhere in the Quarters startled her, and she raised her head; suddenly she was conscious of the smell of something burning, and a tiny spark leaped through a crack in the storehouse. Then a shower of little sparks came through, and the Other Maumer rubbed her cold hands together gleefully. “Dey’s done come back—dey’s done come back; fly an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” But the odor of the burning cotton was stirring something else in the disordered brain. Away back in the Other Maumer’s girlhood there had been a great conflagration. Big House, gin-house, cotton, everything was destroyed, and horror had fallen upon the plantation, for there had been loss of life as well. The Other Maumer was trying to remember. Slowly she drew her hand across her eyes, then shook her head. “Ole Marse?” she queried; then, as the scorching smell grew stronger, she shouted, “De soul er Cindy’s baby!” and crushing her butterflies in her palm, she leaped on her knotted stick into the narrow road leading to the Quarters. * * * * * No one knew exactly how the Other Maumer roused the Quarters that night. Some said that she came on bat wings and fluttered against the chimney as she cried. Others said that she came on a great horse that struck fire with his hoofs as she beat upon each door with her hickory stick. Though to all the message was the same: “Fly, fly ter de ribber an’ fetch de soul er Cindy’s baby!” But the latter part of the admonition was lost in the weirdness of the command, and the frightened negroes tumbled out of their warm beds, wide awake for once. [Illustration: “‘DE BUTTERFLIES DONE COME BACK’”] Under the guidance of Henry, in the dark hour before the dawn, full fifty negroes had been rolling the outside cotton to a place of safety; and now the overseer, in the absence of Ole Marse, hesitated, for the opening of the storehouse would result in a bursting out of the flames; that moment would require coolness, courage, and rapid handling; and the negro, always obedient, shrank from taking the responsibility alone. * * * * * Then a peremptory command came from somewhere, and twenty strong men leaped back as the flames licked through the open doors like tongues. “Strip, men! Git ter wuk lack debils!” called the impelling voice. “Roll ’em out! Roll ’em out! H— is hotter’n dis! Roll ’em out!” and Henry, awe-struck and thrilled, following the leading, dropped into line with the others.