Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the
woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young
cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs,
now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow, and once Mary's blood
turned, for an instant, almost to ice at the unearthly shriek of the
hoot owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim,
narrow road, and the negro stopped.
"Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile, an' you strak 'pon de
broad, main road. Tek de left, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you."
"Good-by," whispered Mary.
"Good-by, Miss," said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss;
don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you come
back. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss."
The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soon
passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length
Mary's companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the
rear, and said softly:
"There's the road," pointing at its broad, pale line with his
six-shooter.
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