“Who’s that nigger with?”
“One of them nigger teachers.”
“Well, they’ll stop this damn riding around or they’ll hear something,” and they rode slowly by.
Miss Taylor felt rather than heard their words, and she was uncomfortable.
The sun fell fast; the long shadows of the swamp swept soft coolness on the red road.
Then afar in front a curled cloud of white dust arose and out of it came the sound of galloping horses.
“Who’s this?” asked Miss Taylor.
“The Cresswells, I think; they usually ride to town about this time.” But already Miss Taylor had descried the brown and tawny sides of the speeding horses.
‚ÄúGood gracious!‚Äù she thought. ‚ÄúThe Cresswells!‚Äù And with it came a sudden desire not to meet them‚ÅÝ‚Äîjust then. She glanced toward the swamp. The sun was sifting bloodred lances through the trees. A little wagon-road entered the wood and disappeared. Miss Taylor saw it.
“Let’s see the sunset in the swamp,” she said suddenly. On came the galloping horses. Bles looked up in surprise, then silently turned into the swamp. The horses flew by, their hoof-beats dying in the distance. A dark green silence lay about them lit by mighty crimson glories beyond. Miss Taylor leaned back and watched it dreamily till a sense of oppression grew on her. The sun was sinking fast.