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 folks.” He drew his pistol from the holster with the address of an expert marksman.

Peter stood, with a quickening pulse, studying his assailant. The glade, the air, the sunshine, seemed suddenly drawn to a tension, likely to, break into violent commotion. His abrupt danger brought Peter to a feeling of lightness and power. A quiver went along his spine. His nostrils widened unconsciously as he calculated a leap and a blow at Tump's gun.

The soldier took a step backward, at the same time bringing the barrel to a ready.

“Naw you don't,” he warned sharply. “You turn roun' an' march on to Niggertown.”

“What for?” Peter still tried to be casual, but his voice held new overtones.

“Because, nigger, I means to drap you right on de Main Street o' Niggertown, 'fo' all dem niggers whut's been a-raggin' me 'bout you an' Cissie. I's gwine show dem fool niggers I don' take no fumi-diddles off'n nobody.”

“Tump,” gasped Jim Pink, in a husky voice, “you oughtn't shoot Peter; he mammy jes daid.”

“'En she won' worry none. Turn roun', Peter, an' when I says, 'March,' you march.” He leveled his pistol. “'Tention! Rat about face! March!”

Peter turned and moved off down the noiseless path, walking with the stiff gait of a man who expects a terrific blow from behind at any instant.

The mulatto walked twenty or more paces amid a