many interviews between masters and slaves.

"What's the matter, master?"

"Oh, the Yankees are coming!"

"Are they? are they? What shall I do, master?" with affected tokens of
fear.

"Get out of the town as soon as you can."

"Oh, master, I'm afraid to leave the house. Oh, those Yankees! Do you
think they will hurt me?"

"Yes, they'll take you and sell you off to Cuba. Perhaps they'll kill
you."

"Will they, master?"

"Yes, I tell you; why don't you leave the town, you rascal?"

"Oh, master, I don't know what to do. You an't a-going to leave us for
the Yankees to catch; are you?"

"Yes, I'm off, and you better be off with yourself--if you don't I'll
shoot you."

"Oh, master, don't shoot me--don't leave me!"

"There they come!"

"Where, master, where? where?"

"I can't stop--good by--you better be off!"

But Tony laughs in his sleeve, and says, with upturned eyes, "I'm not
afraid of the Yankees! Bless God, old master's gone--hope he'll never
come back any more!"

The Zouaves, on "double quick," approach nearer, and up rides one of
the secessionists, in hot haste.

"What's the matter, master? What's the matter?" inquires an
intelligent negro.

"Oh, matter enough, you villain. You brought all this trouble on us. I
am disappointed in you; I thought you would stick by us; but you
desert your best friends in extremity. You won't find those Yankees
what you expect."

"Oh, master, won't you stay and protect us?"

"No; good by, you villain. I'm out of town, and so you had better be,
very quick." And on he flies.

The Zouaves are now crossing the bridge,--now they enter the
town,--and as they pass through street after street, with hats off,
they bow politely to the colored people, who cheer them from doors and
windows. Now every fear is dissipated. Colored knees are bent, and
colored lips praise the Lord. The hope that had all along predominated
over fear is more than met, and the town is full of gladness. The
tidings spread, and the place is soon thronged with colored people
from the country around.

But how different with the white inhabitants! Go with me to the
Sinclair estate--a mile or two north of the town. One of the officers
rides up to the house, and says,--

"Do you own this place?"

"Yes."

"Well, deliver up all your horses."

Sam Simpson, the colored foreman, says, "Boys, bring up the horses."

"Oh, sir, spare an old man!"

"Hurry out those horses!"

"Oh, Sam, stand by me! O