Madame gripped his shoulder with a grasp of iron. “Be quiet, and tell me what you mean. Sister Olive has gone home, I passed her myself with her hat under her arm, and she told me to tell Ezra she had gone back.” “De Lord be praised!” ejaculated Napoleon Pompey. “Den it’s on’y Mas’r Ezra’ll be burnt. Yah, you lemme go!” This exclamation was in answer to the sudden pressure of Madame’s hand, which was like the clutch of a vice. “Where is Ezra? Tell me or I’ll wring your neck,” she said in a voice the like of which Napoleon Pompey had never heard before in his life. “Down dar,” said he terrified, pointing to the Gully. “Show me where he started from.” Madame still kept her hand upon Napoleon Pompey who hurried to the spot where Ezra had stood. “Dar’s his shingle, what he done drap when he run.” “Ha!” said Madame pouncing upon the shingle. “Here, Balthasar, here sweetheart!” The dog came up to her, and she passed her trembling hands over his long ears and whispered to him half crying, half coaxing. “Here, dear heart, do this for me or I die.” She put the shingle to his nose. He sniffed, raised his long and pointed head. Then she lay upon the ground coaxing him to put his nose down. He sniffed again, took a step to the right, to the left, back, then forward. Madame followed clasping the shingle to her bosom and murmuring cooing words of love to her dog. He raised his great tan head and gave a long deep bay that echoed far and wide. “Golly! She gwine ter run him down like he nigger slave,” said Napoleon Pompey with a shiver, as he heard the dog’s voice.