“Henry! Henry! They’re killing Henry!” she shrieked. Her son rushed to her, trying to explain. She pushed him away. “Stop them! Stop those ruffians!” Finally they had Henry overpowered. As he lay on the ground trussed and bleeding, Frederick and John, helpless though they were, stood accused in their own eyes because they too had not resisted. John cried bitterly, in futile rage. Frederick stood rigid, every breath a separate stab of pain. Mrs. Freeland, her own eyes wet, tried to comfort John. “Don’t, Johnny. I know it’s all a mistake. We’ll fix it. We’ll get you and Henry out of it!” They took Sandy, whose black face remained unfathomable. Then the tobacco planter spoke. “Perhaps now we’d better make a search for those passes we understand Captain Auld’s boy has written for them.” Freeland was almost vehement, insisting that they be taken immediately to the jail and there carefully examined. To himself he said that his mother’s outburst had unnerved him. He wanted to get the whole business over and done with--get it out of his sight. As they stood, securely bound, ready to start toward St. Michaels, the mistress came out with her hands full of biscuits which she divided between John and Henry, ignoring both Sandy and Frederick. And as they started around the house she pointed her bony finger at Frederick. “It’s you! You yellow devil!” she called out after him. “You put it in their heads to run away! John and Henry are good boys. You did it! You long-legged, yellow devil!” At the look which Frederick turned on her, she screamed in mingled wrath and fright and went in, slamming the door. The constables fastened them with long ropes to the horses. Now Frederick recognized the two dark forms he had seen from a distance as Handy and a boy owned by Mr. Hamilton. Handy had slipped off that morning to hide their supplies near the canoe. This boy had somehow become involved. Maybe Handy had solicited his aid--maybe that was what happened. Frederick turned the possibility over inside his aching head. The boy had been beaten. His shirt hung in stained utters. Under the watchful eyes they gave no sign of knowing each other. They waited while the horses pawed restlessly, kicking up sharp bits of gravel into their faces. As Freeland mounted his big mare, the tobacco planter pointed at Sandy. “Is that one of your own niggers?” “No,” the master of Freelands shook his head. “I hire him from a man named Groomes, over in Easton.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “I hate to lose the best carpenter we’ve had in a long time.” “I’ve seen him somewhere before.” Hamilton looked thoughtful. “Believe he’s the one they call a voodoo.” Freeland shrugged his shoulders, settling himself firmly in the saddle. Hamilton continued, his voice grim. “Best keep an eye on him.” “Don’t tell me you take stock in nigger black magic!” Freeland mocked him.