He was young, and though stories of such dismal things as that before him were part of the stock in trade of every ancient, garrulous man or woman of his acquaintance, they had been for him but tales; not horrible truths to stare him in the face.

He had seen his father die; but he had died, in his bed, and like one who went to sleep.
The negro had followed him, and now stood with his eyes upon the dying flames, muttering to himself some heathenish charm.

When it was ended, he looked about him uneasily for a time; then bent and plucked his master by the sleeve.

"We cyarn' do nothin' here, Marse Duke," he whispered.

"An' the wolves may get the horses." With a laugh and a groan, the young man rose to his feet.