The moment the boy’s back was turned, Covey streaked across the yard. The movement was so unexpected and so stealthy that Amelia cried out under her breath. She saw what he was going to do even before he grabbed Fred by the leg and brought him down upon the hard ground with a terrible jar. He was pulling the loop over the boy’s legs when, with a sudden spring, the lithe body had leaped at the man, a hand at his throat! Amelia gripped the ledge with her hands and leaned out. They were both on the ground now, the dark figure on top. The boy loosened his fingers. Amelia could see Covey’s upturned face. He was puffing, but it was bewilderment, not pain, that made his face so white and queer. The boy sprang up and stood on his guard while Covey scrambled to his feet. “You ain’t resistin’, you scoundrel?” Covey shouted in a hoarse voice. And Frederick--body crouched, fist raised--said politely, “Yessir.” He was breathing hard. Covey made a move to grab him, and Fred sidestepped. Covey let out a bellow that brought Lucy running to the door. “Hughes! Help! Hughes!” Amelia saw Hughes, halfway across the field, start running back. Meanwhile the boy held his ground, not striking out but ready to defend himself against anything Covey could do. _The slave boy has gone mad!_ She’d heard of slaves “going bad.” She ought to go down and help. They’d all be murdered in their beds. But she couldn’t leave her window. She couldn’t take her eyes off the amazing sight--a dumb slave standing firmly on his feet, his head up. Standing so, he was almost as tall as Covey. Now Hughes came bolting into the yard and rushed Fred. He met a kick in the stomach that sent him staggering away in pain. Covey stared after his overseer stupidly. The nigger had kicked a white man! Covey dodged back--needlessly, for Fred had not moved toward him. He stood quietly waiting, ready to ward off any attack. Covey eyed him. “You goin’ to keep on resistin’?” There was something plaintive about Covey’s question. Amelia had a crazy impulse to laugh. She leaned far out the window. She must hear. The boy’s voice reached her quite distinctly--firm, positive tones. “Yessir. You can’t beat me no mo’--never no mo’.” Now Covey was frightened. He looked around: his cowhide--a club--anything. Hughes, at one side, straightened up. “I’ll get the gun,” he snarled. Covey gave a start, but he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “It’s in the front hall.” Amelia saw Hughes coming toward the house; his face was livid. Then she heard Lucy’s shrill voice and Hughes’s curses. She guessed what Lucy was saying--that they dare not kill Captain Auld’s slave. The boy had not moved. He was watching Covey, whose eyes had fallen on a knotty piece of wood lying just outside the stable door. He began easing his way toward it. Amelia’s breath was coming in panting gulps. Her knees were shaking.