“No.” He was picking up the thick bowl. It had not broken, but its contents had spilled over the scrubbed floor. Sandy scraped up the bits of food and refilled the bowl from an earthen erode on the hearth. Frederick sat watching him. Sandy observed how he made no move--just waited. And his heart was satisfied. _This boy will do_, he thought. _He has patience--patience and endurance. Strength will come._ Once more he handed the bowl to Frederick. “Eat now, boy,” he said. And Frederick ate, emptying the bowl. The food was good and the water Sandy gave him from the pail was fresh and cool. Frederick wondered where the woman had gone. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to thank her before--he went back. He said, “I’m sorry I dropped the bowl.” Then Sandy reached inside the coarse shirt he was wearing and drew out a small pouch--something tied up in an old piece of cloth. “Now, hear me well.” Frederick set the bowl down. “No way you can go now. Wise man face what he must. Big tree bend in strong wind and not break. This time no good. Later day you go. You go far.” Frederick bowed his head. He believed Sandy’s words, but at the thought of Covey’s lash his flesh shivered in spite of the bright promise. Sandy extended the little bag. “Covey beat you no more. Wear this close to body--all the time. No man ever beat you.” Frederick’s heart sank. He made no move to take the bag. His voice faltered. “But--but Sandy, that’s--that’s voodoo. I don’t believe in charms. I’m--I’m a Christian.” Sandy was very still. He gazed hard into the boy’s gaunt face below the bloodstained bandage wrapped about his head; he saw the shadow in the wide, clear eyes; he thought of the lacerated back and broken rib, and his own eyes grew very warm. He spoke softly. “You be very young.” He untied the little bag and carefully shook out its contents into the palm of his hand--dust, fine as powder, a bit of shriveled herb and several smooth, round pebbles. Then he held out the upturned hand to Frederick. “Look now!” he said. “Soil of Africa--come cross the sea close by my mother’s breast.” Holding his breath Frederick bent his head. It was as if a great hand lay upon his heart. “And here”--Sandy’s long fingers touched the withered fragment--“seaweed, flowered on great waters, waters of far-off lands, waters of many lands.” Holding Frederick’s wrist, Sandy carefully emptied the bits upon the boy’s palm, then gently closed his fingers. “A thousand years of dust in one hand! Dust of men long gone, men who lived so you live. Your dust.” He handed Frederick the little bag. And Frederick took it reverently. With the utmost care, lest one grain of dust be lost, he emptied his palm into it. Then, drawing the cord tight, he placed the pouch inside his rags, fastening the cord securely. He stood up, and his head was clear. Again the black man thought, _He’ll do!_