"This is a curious interval in the woods," I said, looking up and down. "I should almost be tempted to think a river once flowed down here." "Oh, no," she answered; "they have a tradition in the country that it was caused by what they call here a _flaw_ of wind, which broke clear through the forest, like a hemmed-in warrior cutting his way through his enemies. The trees that the blast overthrew have long since decayed; but the path that he made for himself still remains. Man boasts his mighty deeds; but when will king or conqueror leave such permanent traces of his footsteps as are here?" "And yet, dear Bessy," I answered, "man can occasionally hew for himself ways more magnificent, more indelible than this. The forest around may be cut down, the roots rot away, the plough-share pass over where we stand, and not a trace be left. But the mighty human mind, when nobly and vigorously exerted, opens out, for everlasting ages, paths which millions follow every day, and which are never blotted out. He who sweeps away the prejudices of a race--he who opens out a wide and noble path for the human mind--he who leads an Exodus from any land of darkness to a land of light, performs a more powerful and more permanent work than the tempest--ay, and one more beneficent." "True, true," she cried eagerly, "very true; but such thoughts set my little weak brain whirling. I should like to have been a man, and done some great deeds; but here I am, a mere Virginian girl, no stronger than a butterfly, and fit only for small thoughts and petty personal adventures. But, talking of adventures, I could make your hair stand on end, if I chose, by a tale of what happened in this wood, through which we are going. It has been called 'The Hunter Wood' ever since." "And what is it?" I asked. "No, no," she answered, "I won't tell you now; I should only frighten myself; and in ten minutes we shall be at Nat Turner's cottage, for this is the boundary of Mr. Travis's property. We will come back the other way, for the sun will then throw the shade more northerly, and that will bring us to the house where uncle Jack, as they call him, pays a visit every year." "Is that the old man you spoke of yesterday?" I asked. "Yes; and very old he is," she replied; "how old, nobody knows, exactly; but he must be more than ninety, for he was brought from the coast of Africa, they say, when a good big boy, more than eighty years ago, in one of the last slave ships that ever came to Virginia." "He is a slave, then," I said. "Oh no," she answered; "he is so very much loved and respected, that several people joined together, and purchased his freedom." "He must, indeed, be an extraordinary man to create such feelings in his favour," I remarked.