In the body of the carriage a diminutive bonneted head was
barely visible above an enormous circumference of hoops. Elim saw
bobbing gray curls, peering anxious eyes, and a fluttering hand in a
black silk-thread mit.
"Gossard," a feminine voice cried shrilly to the driver, at the sight
of Elim on the roadside, "here's a Yankee army; lick up those horses!"
The negro swung a vicious whip, the horses started sharply forward, but
the carriage wheels, sinking in a deep slough, remained fixed; the
harness creaked but held; the equipage remained stationary. The negro
dismounted sulkily, and Elim crossed the road and put his shoulder to a
wheel. Together with the driver, he lifted the carriage on to a firmer
surface. The old lady was seated with tightly shut eyes.
"This here man ain't going to hurt you," the driver exclaimed
impatiently. "This exdus is all nonsense anyways," he grumbled. "I got
a mind to stop--I'm free."
She directed upon him a beady black gaze.
"You get right into this carriage," she commanded; "you'd be free to
starve. You are a fool!" The man reluctantly obeyed her. "I thank you
for your clemency," she said to Elim. She fumbled among her flounces
and hoops and produced an object carefully wrapped and tied. "Here,"
she proclaimed; "I can still pay for a service. Gossard--" the carriage
moved forward, was lost in the dip in the road. Elim opened the package
in his hand and regarded, with something like consternation, a bottle
of champagne.
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