Yet Wilmer had thought that I was safe in his house, if not in the huts. And if I were not secure here, what risks must I not run on the slow, painful, helpless journey to Gates’s Head-Quarters, through a district ill-affected to the British! Once there, it is true, my life would be safe, and the Colonial Surgeons enjoyed a high reputation for skill. But the appliances of a rebel hospital were sure to be few, the fare rough and scanty; it was unlikely that I should be better off there than where I was. In the end, doubtless, I should have to go thither; it was the only road to exchange and freedom, unless a happy chance rescued me. But a life which would be bearable when I could use my arm and had recovered my strength would be no bed of roses at present. And to be quite honest I had found an interest where I was. I had enjoyed my tussle with this strange girl, and I looked forward to a repetition of it. Her beauty, her disdain, her desire to be rid of me piqued me—as whom would it not have piqued?—and whetted that appetite for conquest which is of the man, manly. Madam Constantia! The name suited her. I could fancy that she governed the plantation with a firm hand and a high courage. On the whole I was determined, whatever the risk, to stay where I was; and yet as the day waned I felt less happy. My shoulder was painful, I was restless. I told myself that I had some fever. I was tired, too, of my own company and the house seemed more still than usual. I hoped that the girl would pay me another visit, would resume the argument, and make a second effort to persuade me; but she did not, and when my supper came Mammy Jacks dispensed it with an air, absurdly tragic. She heaved sighs from a capacious bosom, and looked at me as if I were already doomed. “Marse, you’r runnin’ up wid trubble,” she said. “Ma’am ’Stantia, she look like der wuz sump’n wrong. She look like she whip all de han’s on de plantation.” “I dare say she is pretty severe,” I said carelessly. “I des’low you know nothin’ ’bout it,” the woman replied in great scorn. “She sholy not whip one ha’f, t’ree quarters, ten times ’nough! When Marse Wilmer come home, sez he, whip all dis black trash! Make up fer lost time. De last man better fer it! Begin wid Mammy Jacks! Dat’s w’at he say, but I des hanker ter see him tech ole Mammy! I speck sumpin’ wud happen bimeby ter ’sprise ’im. Ef Missie got win’ uv it, she up en tell ’im!” “Is he coming back soon?” I asked. “Day atter to-morrow. Clar to goodness, when he mounts dem steps, Missie’ll not mope round no mo’! She not make like she whip de han’s den.” “She’s very fond of him, is she?” “Der ain’t nobody in Car’lina fer ’er ceppin er dad! Seem like she idol—idol—” “Idolizes him,” I suggested. “Mout be dat,” Mammy Jacks assented. She repeated the word to herself with much satisfaction. It was a long one.