s condition. This may
relieve Tom Widlake of the duty of shooting the colonel in revenge for
his father. It is commonly believed that Colonel Randolph's horses
were maddened by the smell of the blood which has dried up where old
Widlake was shot. Much sympathy is felt for the colonel. Neither of
the horses was injured.'"

"Clayville appears to be a lively kind of place," I said. "Do you often
have shootings down here?"

"We do," said Moore, rather gravely; "it is one of our institutions with
which I could dispense."

"And do you 'carry iron,' as the Greeks used to say, or 'go heeled,' as
your citizens express it?"

"No, I don't; neither pistol nor knife. If any one shoots me, he shoots
an unarmed man. The local bullies know it, and they have some scruple
about shooting in that case. Besides, they know I am an awkward customer
at close quarters."

Moore relapsed into his Mexican historian, and I into the newspaper.

"Here is a chance of seeing one of your institutions at last," I said.

I had found an advertisement concerning a lot of negroes to be sold that
very day by public auction in Clayville. All this, of course, was
"before the war."

"Well, I suppose you ought to see it," said Moore, rather reluctantly. He
was gradually emancipating his own servants, as I knew, and was even
suspected of being a director of "the Underground Railroad" to Canada.

"Peter," he cried, "will you be good enough to saddle three horses and
bring them round?"

Peter, a "darkey boy" who had been hanging about in the garden, grinned
and went off. He was a queer fellow, Peter, a plantation humourist, well
taught in all the then unpublished lore of "Uncle Remus." Peter had a
way of his own, too, with animals, and often aided Moore in collecting
objects of natural history.

"Did you get me those hornets, Peter?" said Moore, when the black
returned with the horses.

"Got 'em safe, massa, in a little box," replied Peter, who then mounted
and followed at a respectful distance as our squire.

Without many more words we rode into the forest which lay between
Clayville and Moore's plantation. Through the pine barrens ran the road,
and on each side of the way was luxuriance of flowering creepers. The
sweet faint scent of the white jessamine and the homely fragrance of
honeysuckle filled the air, and the wild white roses were in perfect
blossom. Here and there an aloe reminded me that we were not at home,