At the hour of sunset, after many halts upon the way, they found themselves alone and still facing the open road. Since midday they had stopped for dinner with a hospitable farmer, and, some hours later, Big Abel had feasted on wild grapes, which he had found hidden in the shelter of a little wood. In the same wood a stream had tinkled over silver rocks, and Dan, lying upon the bank of moss, had bathed his face and hands in the clear water. Now, while the shadows fell in spires across the road, they turned into a quiet country lane, and stood watching the sun as it dropped beyond the gray stone wall. In the grass a small insect broke into a low humming, and the silence, closing the next instant, struck upon Dan's ears like a profound and solemn melody. He took off his cap, and still leaning upon Big Abel, looked with rested eyes on the sloping meadow brushed with the first gold of autumn. Something that was not unlike shame had fallen over him--as if the horrors of the morning were a mere vulgar affront which man had put upon the face of nature. The very anguish of the day obtruded awkwardly upon his thoughts, and the wild clamour he had left behind him showed with a savage crudeness against a landscape in which the dignity of earth--of the fruitful life of seasons and of crops--produced in a solitary observer a quiet that was not untouched by awe. Where nature was suggestive of the long repose of ages, the brief passions of a single generation became as the flicker of a candle or the glow of a firefly in the night. “Dat's a steep road ahead er us,” remarked Big Abel suddenly, as he stared into the shadows. Dan came back with a start. “Where shall we sleep?” he asked. “No, not in that field--the open sky would keep me awake, I think. Let's bivouac in the woods as usual.” They moved on a little way and entered a young pine forest, where Big Abel gathered a handful of branches and kindled a light blaze. “You ain' never eat nigger food, is you, Marse Dan?” he inquired as he did so. “Good Lord!” ejaculated Dan, “ask a man who has lived two months on corn-field peas if he's eaten hog food, and he'll be pretty sure to answer 'yes.' Do you know we must have crawled about six miles to-day.” He lay back on the pine tags and stared straight above where the long green needles were illuminated on a background of purple space. A few fireflies made golden points among the tree-tops. “Well, I'se got a hunk er middlin',” pursued Big Abel thoughtfully, “a strip er fat en a strip er lean des like hit oughter be--but a nigger 'ooman she gun hit ter me, en I 'low Ole Marster wouldn't tech hit wid a ten-foot pole.” He stuck the meat upon the end of Dan's bayonet and held it before the flames. “Ole Marster wouldn't tech hit, but den he ain' never had dese times.” “You're right,” replied Dan idly, filling his pipe and lighting it with a small red ember, “and all things considered, I don't think I'll raise any racket about that middling, Big Abel.”