As his eyes slowly took in the
scene, Yancy's astonishment mounted higher and higher. The
lady's sunbonnet quite hid her face, but he saw that she was
smoking a cob-pipe.
He was still staring at her, when the lank figure of a man
emerged from the other shanty. This man wore a cotton shirt and
patched butternut trousers; he way hatless and shoeless, and his
hair stood out from his head in a great flaming shock. He, too,
was smoking a cob-pipe. Suddenly the man put out a long arm
which found its way about the lady's waist, an attention that
culminated in a vigorous embrace. Then releasing her, he squared
his shoulders, took a long breath, beat his chest with the flat
of his hands and uttered a cheerful whoop. The embrace, the deep
breath, and the whoop constituted Mr. Cavendish's morning
devotions, and were expressive of a spirit of thankfulness to the
risen sun, his general satisfaction with the course of
Providence, and his homage to the lady of his choice.
Swinging about on his heel, Cavcndish passed beyond Yancy's range
of vision. Again the latter attempted to lift himself on his
elbow, but sky and water changed places before his eyes and he
dropped down on his pillow with a stifled sigh. He seemed to be
slipping back into the black night from which he had just
emerged. Again he was at Scratch Hill, again Dave Blount was
seeking to steal his nevvy--incidents of the trial and flight
recurred to him--all was confused, feverish, without sequence.
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