piece with his loyalty, a reflection in
some sort of his master's glory. He could never--he with his black
skin--be such a man; but he passionately desired to be honoured,
respected, though but posthumously. And the emblazoned board in the
church, appealing as it did to his negro sense of colour, had
suggested a way. It is not too much to say that a great part of
Scipio's time was lived by him in a future when, released from this
present livery, his spirit should take on a more gorgeous one, as
"Scipio Johnson, Esquire, late of this Parish," in scarlet twiddles
on a buff ground.

He seated himself on the earthwork, and the better to commune with
this vision, tilted his gold-laced hat forward over his eyes,
shutting out the dazzle of the morning sun. Once or twice he shook
himself, being heavy with broken sleep, and gazed across the ridges,
then drew up his knees, clasped them, and let his heavy, woolly head
drop forward, nodding.

Let us not pursue those stages of conviviality through which the Looe
Diehards, having been seen home by the Troy Gallants, arrived at an
obligation to return the compliment. Suffice it to say that Major
Hymen and Captain Pond, within five minutes of bidding one another a
public tearful farewell, found themselves climbing the first hill
towards Lerryn with linked arms. But the Devil's Hedge is a wide one
and luckily could not be mistaken, even in the uncertain light of
dawn.

And, to pass over the minor incidents of that march, I will maintain
in fairness (though the men of Troy choose to laugh) that the sudden
apparition of a black man seated in the morning light upon the
Devil's Hedge was enough to daunt even the tried valour of the Looe
Diehards.

"The De'il's awa', the De'il's awa',
The De'il's awa' wi' th' exciseman."

The eye notoriously magnifies an object seen upon a high ridge
against the skyline; and when Scipio stood erect in all his gigantic
proportions and waved both arms to welcome his beloved master, the
Diehards turned with a yell and fled. Vainly their comrades of Troy
called after them. Back and down the hill they streamed pell-mell,
one on another's heels; down to the marshy bottom known as Trebant
Water, nor paused to catch breath until they had placed a running
brook between them and the Power of Darkness.

For the second time that night the Gallants rolled about and clung
one to another in throes of Homeric laughter; laughter which,
reverbera