He stood in the hall, ready for exit through the front door, and when he heard the butts of their guns strike upon the folding doors which he had secured the best he could, he walked out upon the porch. Ten or twelve blood-thirsty men stood at the foot of the steps, and vociferated. “Come down, you —— big nigger! come down!” “I ha’n’t done nothing,” said Harris. “No, none of you ha’n’t done nothing,” was the response, while as many as could, laid hold upon him, and speedily, though not tenderly, conducted him to the “dead-ring.” “Let me stand up,” said he, attempting to rise from the dust where they had seated him. “A man can’t see outside at all,—can’t see among the white folks at all.” “You sit down there, you great big nigger!” said little Gaston, sticking him with a gun; and Mann Harris sat down. The next moment, with a great shout and halloa, Lieutenant Watta was brought, and compelled to sit down close beside Harris. “Good! good! boys,” shouted the great General. “But can’t you get that Captain? I want that Captain, now.” “What sort of a looking man is he?” “Oh, he’s a saucy-looking fellow, and has side whiskers and a moustache.” “I’ll write it down,” said one producing a pencil. Failing to find paper in any of his pockets, he turned towards the moonlight, and wrote it upon his shirt cuffs. “Halloa Tom, let me have your pencil while I write it upon my shirt-front,” said another. “The starch makes it as good as paper. We’ll catch him before long now.” Little did they think he was just above their heads, watching their writing. Watta’s white blood, which had boiled and seethed all day and in the early evening, had spent its fury, and the gentler nature of the man had assumed control. “Oh, they’ve fotched _you_, Watta,” said Harris, really more alarmed for him than for himself. “Mann,” said Watta in a low tone, “what do you think of this?” “I don’t know what to think of it.” “Do you think they will kill any of us?” “Yes I do, just so.” “Do you think they will kill me?” “I do Watta; that I do: and all you have got to do is to pray God to save your soul.” “Oh, my poor wife and children!” cried the poor man, softly, folding bis long thin hands across his knees and dropped his head in the anguish of despair. “Just give up your wife and children, and every thing else, and be prepared to die,” said Harris, “for they are going to kill you. There’s been so many envious niggers telling lies on you, and the white folks is ‘allus’ ready to believe ’em; and they have been making such threats about you, and I’m satisfied they’ll kill you.” Watta bent his head lower, and the tears fell fast. “That you?” asked Harris of another. “Yes, I was hid under my own house, an’ ’dey was gwo’ine to shoot me dar, an’ I tole ’em I surrendered, ’an ’dey brung me heah.” “And Dan Pipsie! you here too?” exclaimed the inquisitive Harris.