Not recognizing, therefore, a friend in the “Yankee” who stood in his door-way, the glitter of his bayonet was disagreeable to old Joe’s eyes, and the point of it looked so sharp that it made his ribs ache; and his knees trembled beneath him. For old Joe was not by nature bloodthirsty, nor longed for gore,—least of all the intimate and personal gore of Joseph Meekins. “Sarvant, mahster!” Perhaps old Jim’s naturally serene temper was ruffled, at the moment, by the fact that the fangs of a blackberry-bush, under which he had forced his head, had fastened themselves upon his right ear. At any rate, I am afraid he muttered, _sotto voce_, an oath at hearing his old slave and friend call a Yankee master. “Sarvant, mahster!” Old Joe’s form was bent low, his teeth chattered, his eyes rolled in terror like those of a bullock dragged up to the slaughter-post and the knife. The sight of a man’s face distorted with abject fear has always filled me with deep compassion; but I believe it arouses in the average man (which I am far from claiming to be) a feeling of pitiless scorn. “Sarvant, mahster!” chattered old Joe, writhing himself behind the kitchen table. The soldier was an average man. “Where is your master, you d—d old baboon?” said he, entering the kitchen. “My mahster, yes, mahster, my mahster, he—for de love o’ Gaud, young gent’mun, don’t pint her dis way,—she mought be loaded. Take a cheer, young mahster; jess set up to de table” (over which he gave a rapid pass with his sleeve) “an’ lemme gi’ you some o’ dat nice bacon I was jess a-fryin’ for my mahster’s supper.” At these words old Jim’s teeth began to chatter so that he forgot the belligerent brier. The soldier, hungry from his march, fell to, nothing loath, but had scarcely eaten three mouthfuls before several of his comrades appeared, all of whom fell foul of poor old Jim’s supper with military ardor, if without military precision. “Where’s the old F. F. V.?” asked a new-comer, through a mouthful of hoe-cake. “Yes, where is your master?” put in the first man. “You didn’t tell me. Out with it.” Joe had had time to repent of his ill-advised admission in regard to the supper. “You ax me whar Mr. Bush is? Oh, he’s in Culpeper Court-House. Leastways, he leff b’fo’ light dis mornin’ boun’ dar.” The audacious lack of adjustment between this statement and the facts of the case amazed, almost amused, old Jim. Breathing a little freer, he ventured softly to shake his ear loose from the brier; for he could not reach it with his hand. “Why, you lying old ape, didn’t you tell me that this was his supper?” “Cert’n’y, young gent’mun; cert’n’y I say dat, in course.” “And your master at Culpeper?”