THE VISION OF DEATH HAS PAST.
MR. SEABROOK returns to the mansion, and consoles the anxious lady
by assuring her the children have been saved from the hands of
obnoxious traders-sold to a good, country deacon. He was so
delighted with their appearance that he could not keep from admiring
them, and does not wonder the good lady took so great an interest in
their welfare. He knows the ministerial-looking gentleman who bought
them is a kind master; he has an acute knowledge of human nature,
and judges from his looks. And he will further assure the good lady
that the auctioneer proved himself a gentleman-every inch of him! He
wouldn't take a single bid from a trader, not even from old Graspum
(he dreads to come in contact with such a brute as he is, when he
gets his eye on a good piece o' nigger property), with all his
money. As soon as he heard the name of a deacon among the bidders,
something in his heart forbade his bidding against him.
"You were not as good as your word, Mr. Seabrook," says the good
lady, still holding Mr. Seabrook by the hand. "But, are you sure
there was no disguise about the sale?"
"Not the least, madam!" interrupts Mr. Seabrook, emphatically.
"Bless me, madam, our people are too sensitive not to detect
anything of that kind; and too generous to allow it if they did
discover it. The children-my heart feels for them-are in the very
best hands; will be brought up just as pious and morally. Can't go
astray in the hands of a deacon-that's certain!" Mr. Seabrook rubs
his hands, twists his fingers in various ways, and gives utterance
to words of consolation, most blandly. The anxious lady seems
disappointed, but is forced to accept the assurance.
We need scarcely tell the reader how intentionally Mr. Seabrook
contented himself with the deception practised at the mart, nor with
what freedom he made use of that blandest essence of southern
assurance,--extreme politeness, to deceive the lady. She, however,
had long been laudably engaged in behalf of a down-trodden race; and
her knowledge of the secret workings of an institution which could
only cover its monstrosity with sophistry and fraud impressed her
with the idea of some deception having been practised. She well knew
that Mr. Seabrook was one of those very contented gentlemen who have
strong faith in the present, and are willing to sacrifice the
future, if peace and plenty be secured to their hands. He had many
times been known to listen to the advice of his confidential slaves,
and even to yield to their caprices. And, too, he had been known to
decry the ill-treatment of slaves by brutal and inconsiderate
masters; but he never thinks it worth while to go beyond expressing
a sort of rain-water sympathy for the maltreated. With those traits
most prominent in his character, Annette and Nicholas were to him
mere merchandise; and whatever claims to freedom they might have,
through the acknowledgments of a father, he could give them no
consideration, inasmuch as the law was paramount, and the great
conservator of the south.
Our worthy benefactress felt the force of the above, in his
reluctance to execute her commands, and the manner in which he
faltered when questioned about the purchase. Returning to her home,
weighing the circumstances, she resolves to devise some method of
ascertaining the true position of the children. "Women are not to be
outdone," she says to herself.
We must again beg the reader's indulgence while accompanying us in a
retrograde necessary to the connection of our narrative. When we
left Mr. M'Fadden at the crossing, more than two years ago, he was
labouring under the excitement of a wound he greatly feared would
close the account of his mortal speculations.
On the morning following that great political gathering, and during
the night Harry had so singularly disappeared, the tavern was rife
with conjectures. On the piazza and about the "bar-room" were a few
stupefied and half-insensible figures stretched upon benches, or
reclining in chairs, their coarse garments rent into tatters, and
their besotted faces resembling as many florid masks grouped
together to represent some demoniacal scene among the infernals;
others were sleeping soundly beside the tables, or on the lawn. With
filthy limbs bared, they snored with painful discord, in superlative
contempt of everything around. Another party, reeking with the fumes
of that poisonous drug upon which candidates for a people's favours
had built their high expectations, were leaning carelessly against
the rude counter of the "bar-room," casting wistful glances at the
fascinating bottles so securely locked within the lattice-work in
the corner. Oaths of touching horror are mingling with loud calls
for slave attendants, whose presence they wait to quench their
burning thirst. Reader! digest the moral. In this human menagerie-in
this sink of besotted degradation-lay the nucleus of a power by
which the greatest interests of state are controlled.
A bedusted party of mounted men have returned from a second
ineffectual attempt to recover the lost preacher: the appearance of
responsibility haunts mine host. He assured Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden
that his property would be perfectly secure under the lock of the
corn-shed. And now his anxiety exhibits itself in the readiness
with which he supplies dogs, horses, guns, and such implements as
are necessary to hunt down an unfortunate minister of the gospel.
What makes the whole thing worse, was the report of M'Fadden having
had a good sleep and awaking much more comfortable; that there was
little chance of the fortunate issue of his death. In this, mine
host saw the liability increasing two-fold.
He stands his important person, (hat off, face red with expectancy,
and hands thrust well down into his breeches pocket), on the top
step of the stairs leading to the veranda, and hears the
unfavourable report with sad discomfiture. "That's what comes of
making a preacher of a slave! Well! I've done all I can. It puts all
kinds of deviltry about runnin' away into their heads," he ventures
to assert, as he turns away, re-enters the "bar-room," and invites
all his friends to drink at his expense.
"Mark what I say, now, Squire Jones. The quickest way to catch that
ar' nigger 's just to lay low and keep whist. He's a pious nigger;
and a nigger can't keep his pious a'tween his teeth, no more nor a
blackbird can his chattering. The feller 'll feel as if he wants to
redeem somebody; and seeing how 'tis so, if ye just watch close some
Sunday ye'll nab the fellow with his own pious bait. Can catch a
pious runaway nigger 'most any time; the brute never knows enough to
keep it to himself," says a flashily dressed gentleman, as he leaned
against the counter, squinted his eye with an air of ponderous
satisfaction, and twirled his tumbler round and round on the
counter. "'Pears to me," he continues, quizzically, "Squire, you've
got a lot o' mixed cracker material here, what it'll be hard to
manufactor to make dependable voters on, 'lection day:" he casts a
look at the medley of sleepers.
"I wish the whole pack on 'em was sold into slavery, I do! They form
six-tenths of the voters in our state, and are more ignorant, and a
great deal worse citizens, than our slaves. Bl-'em, there is'nt one
in fifty can read or write, and they're impudenter than the
Governor."
"Hush! hush! squire. 'Twon't do to talk so. There ain't men nowhere
stand on dignity like them fellers; they are the very
bone-and-siners of the unwashed, hard-fisted democracy. The way
they'd pull this old tavern down, if they heard reflections on their
honour, would be a caution to storms. But how's old iron-sided
M'Fadden this morning? Begins to think of his niggers, I reckon,"
interrupts the gentleman; to which mine host shakes his head,
despondingly. Mine host wishes M'Fadden, nigger, candidates and all,
a very long distance from his place.
"I s'pose he thinks old Death, with his grim visage, ain't going to
call for him just now. That's ollers the way with northerners, who
lives atween the hope of something above, and the love of makin'
money below: they never feel bad about the conscience, until old
Davy Jones, Esq., the gentleman with the horns and tail, takes them
by the nose, and says-'come!'"
"I have struck an idea," says our worthy host, suddenly striking his
hand on the counter. "I will put up a poster. I will offer a big
reward. T'other property's all safe; there's only the preacher
missing."
"Just the strike! Give us yer hand, squire!" The gentleman reaches
his hand across the counter, and smiles, while cordially embracing
mine host. "Make the reward about two hundred, so I can make a good
week's work for the dogs and me. Got the best pack in the parish;
one on 'em knows as much as most clergymen, he does!" he very
deliberately concludes, displaying a wonderful opinion of his own
nigger-catching philosophy.
And Mr. Jones, such is mine host's name, immediately commenced
exercising his skill in composition on a large, poster, which with a
good hour's labour he completes, and posts upon the ceiling of the
"bar-room," just below an enormously illustrated Circus bill.
"There! now's a chance of some enterprise and some sense. There's a
deuced nice sum to be made at that!" says Mr. Jones, emphatically,
as he stands a few steps back, and reads aloud the following sublime
outline of his genius:--
"GREAT INDUCEMENT FOR SPORTSMEN. Two Hundred Dollars Reward.
"The above reward will be given anybody for the apprehension of the
nigger-boy, Harry, the property of Mr. M'Fadden. Said Harry
suddenly disappeared from these premises last night, while his
master was supposed to be dying. The boy's a well-developed nigger,
'ant sassy, got fine bold head and round face, and intelligent eye,
and 's about five feet eleven inches high, and equally proportionate
elsewhere. He's much giv'n to preachin', and most likely is secreted
in some of the surrounding swamps, where he will remain until
tempted to make his appearance on some plantation for the purpose of
exortin his feller niggers. He is well disposed, and is said to have
a good disposition, so that no person need fear to approach him for
capture. The above reward will be paid upon his delivery at any gaol
in the State, and a hundred and fifty dollars if delivered at any
gaol out of the State.
"JETHRO JONES."
"Just the instrument to bring him, Jethro!" intimates our
fashionable gent, quizzically, as he stands a few feet behind Mr.
Jones, making grimaces. Then, gazing intently at the bill for some
minutes, he runs his hands deep into his pockets, affects an air of
greatest satisfaction, and commences whistling a tune to aid in
suppressing a smile that is invading his countenance. "Wouldn't be
in that nigger's skin for a thousand or more dollars, I wouldn't!"
he continues, screeching in the loudest manner, and then shaking,
kicking, and rousing the half-animate occupants of the floor and
benches. "Come! get up here! Prize money ahead! Fine fun for a week.
Prize money ahead! wake up, ye jolly sleepers, loyal citizens,
independent voters-wake up, I say. Here's fun and frolic, plenty of
whiskey, and two hundred dollars reward for every mother's son of ye
what wants to hunt a nigger; and he's a preachin nigger at that!
Come; whose in for the frolic, ye hard-faced democracy that love to
vote for your country's good and a good cause?" After exerting
himself for some time, they begin to scramble up like so many
bewildered spectres of blackness, troubled to get light through the
means of their blurred faculties.
"Who's dragging the life out o' me?" exclaims one, straining his
mottled eyes, extending his wearied limbs, gasping as if for breath;
then staggering to the counter. Finally, after much struggling,
staggering, expressing consternation, obscene jeering, blasphemous
oaths and filthy slang, they stand upright, and huddle around the
notice. The picture presented by their ragged garments, their
woebegone faces, and their drenched faculties, would, indeed, be
difficult to transfer to canvas.
"Now, stare! stare! with all yer fire-stained eyes, ye clan of
motley vagrants-ye sovereign citizens of a sovereign state. Two
hundred dollars! aye, two hundred dollars for ye. Make plenty o'
work for yer dogs; knowin brutes they are. And ye'll get whiskey
enough to last the whole district more nor a year," says our worthy
Jones, standing before them, and pointing his finger at the notice.
They, as if doubting their own perceptibilities, draw nearer and
nearer, straining their eyes, while their bodies oscillate against
each other.
Mine host tells them to consider the matter, and be prepared for
action, while he will proceed to M'Fadden's chamber and learn the
state of his health.
He opens the sick man's chamber, and there, to his surprise, is the
invalid gentleman, deliberately taking his tea and toast. Mine host
congratulates him upon his appearance, extends his hand, takes a
seat by his bed-side. "I had fearful apprehensions about you, my
friend," he says.
"So had I about myself. I thought I was going to slip it in right
earnest. My thoughts and feelins-how they wandered!" M'Fadden raises
his hand to his forehead, and slowly shakes his head. "I would'nt a'
given much for the chances, at one time; but the wound isn't so bad,
after all. My nigger property gets along all straight, I suppose?"
he enquires, coolly, rolling his eyes upwards with a look of serious
reflection. "Boy preacher never returned last night. It's all right,
though, I suppose?" again he enquired, looking mine host right in
the eye, as if he discovered some misgiving. His seriousness soon
begins to give place to anxiety.
"That boy was a bad nigger," says mine host, in a half-whisper; "but
you must not let your property worry you, my friend."
"Bad nigger!" interrupts the invalid. Mine host pauses for a moment,
while M'Fadden sets his eyes upon him with a piercing stare.
"Not been cutting up nigger tricks?" he ejaculates, enquiringly,
about to spring from his couch with his usual nimbleness. Mine host
places his left hand upon his shoulder, and assures him there is no
cause of alarm.
"Tell me if any thing's wrong about my property. Now do,--be candid:"
his eyes roll, anxiously.
"All right-except the preacher; he's run away," mine host answers,
suggesting how much better it will be to take the matter cool, as he
is sure to be captured.
"What! who-how? you don't say! My very choicest piece of property.
Well-well! who will believe in religion, after that? He came to my
sick chamber, the black vagabond did, and prayed as piously as a
white man. And it went right to my heart; and I felt that if I died
it would a' been the means o' savin my soul from all sorts of things
infernal," says the recovering M'Fadden. He, the black preacher, is
only a nigger after all; and his owner will have him back, or he'll
have his black hide-that he will! The sick man makes another effort
to rise, but is calmed into resignation through mine host's further
assurance that the property will be "all right" by the time he gets
well.
"How cunning it was in the black vagrant! I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if he cleared straight for Massachusetts-Massachusetts
hates our State. Her abolitionists will ruin us yet, sure as the
world. We men of the South must do something on a grand scale to
protect our rights and our property. The merchants of the North will
help us; they are all interested in slave labour. Cotton is king;
and cotton can rule, if it will. Cotton can make friendship strong,
and political power great.
"There's my cousin John, ye see; he lives north, but is married to a
woman south. He got her with seventeen mules and twenty-three
niggers. And there's brother Jake's daughter was married to a
planter out south what owns lots o' niggers. And there's good old
uncle Richard; he traded a long time with down south folks, made
heaps a money tradin niggers in a sly way, and never heard a word
said about slavery not being right, that he did'nt get into a deuce
of a fuss, and feel like fightin? Two of Simon Wattler's gals were
married down south, and all the family connections became down-south
in principle. And here's Judge Brooks out here, the very best
down-south Judge on the bench; he come from cousin Ephraim's
neighbourhood, down east. It's just this way things is snarled up
a'tween us and them ar' fellers down New England way. It keeps up
the strength of our peculiar institution, though. And southern
Editors! just look at them; why, Lord love yer soul! two thirds on'
em are imported from down-north way; and they make the very best
southern-principled men. I thought of that last night, when Mr.
Jones with the horns looked as if he would go with him. But, I'll
have that preachin vagrant, I'll have him!" says Mr. M'Fadden,
emphatically, seeming much more at rest about his departing affairs.
As the shadows of death fade from his sight into their proper
distance, worldly figures and property justice resume their wonted
possession of his thoughts.
Again, as if suddenly seized with pain, he contorts his face, and
enquires in a half-whisper--"What if this wound should mortify?
would death follow quickly? I'm dubious yet!"
Mine host approaches nearer his bed-side, takes his hand. M'Fadden,
with much apparent meekness, would know what he thought of his case?
He is assured by the kind gentleman that he is entirely out of
danger-worth a whole parish of dead men. At the same time, mine host
insinuates that he will never do to fight duels until he learns to
die fashionably.
M'Fadden smiles,--remembers how many men have been nearly killed and
yet escaped the undertaker,--seems to have regained strength, and
calls for a glass of whiskey and water. Not too strong! but,
reminding mine host of the excellent quality of his bitters, he
suggests that a little may better his case.
"I didn't mean the wound," resuming his anxiety for the lost
preacher: "I meant the case of the runaway?"
"Oh! oh! bless me! he will forget he is a runaway piece of property
in his anxiousness to put forth his spiritual inclinations. That's
what'll betray the scamp;--nigger will be nigger, you know! They
can't play the lawyer, nohow," mine host replies, with an assurance
of his ability to judge negro character. This is a new idea, coming
like the dew-drops of heaven to relieve his anxiety. The consoling
intelligence makes him feel more comfortable.
The whiskey-and-bitters-most unpoetic drink-is brought to his
bed-side. He tremblingly carries it to his lips, sips and sips;
then, with one gulp, empties the glass. At this moment the pedantic
physician makes his appearance, scents the whiskey, gives a
favourable opinion of its application as a remedy in certain cases.
The prescription is not a bad one. Climate, and such a rusty
constitution as Mr. M'Fadden is blest with, renders a little
stimulant very necessary to keep up the one thing needful-courage!
The patient complains bitterly to the man of pills and powders;
tells a great many things about pains and fears. What a dreadful
thing if the consequence had proved fatal! He further thinks that it
was by the merest act of Providence, in such a desperate affray, he
had not been killed outright. A great many bad visions have haunted
him in his dreams, and he is very desirous of knowing what the man
of salts and senna thinks about the true interpretation of such.
About the time he was dreaming such dreams he was extremely anxious
to know how the spiritual character of slave-holders stood on the
records of heaven, and whether the fact of slave-owning would cause
the insertion of an item in the mortal warrant forming the exception
to a peaceful conclusion with the Father's forgiveness. He felt as
if he would surely die during the night past, and his mind became so
abstracted about what he had done in his life,--what was to come, how
negro property had been treated, how it should be treated,--that,
although he had opinions now and then widely-different, it had left
a problem which would take him all his life-time to solve,--if he
should live ever so long. And, too, there were these poor wretches
accidentally shot down at his side; his feelings couldn't withstand
the ghostly appearance of their corpses as he was carried past them,
perhaps to be buried n the same forlorn grave, the very next day.
All these things reflected their results through the morbidity of
Mr. M'Fadden's mind; but his last observation, showing how slender
is the cord between life and death, proved what was uppermost in his
mind. "You'll allow I'm an honest man? I have great faith in your
opinion, Doctor! And if I have been rather go-ahead with my niggers,
my virtue in business matters can't be sprung," he mutters. The
physician endeavours to calm his anxiety, by telling him he is a
perfect model of goodness,--a just, honest, fearless, and
enterprising planter; and that these attributes of our better nature
constitute such a balance in the scale as will give any gentleman
slaveholder very large claims to that spiritual proficiency
necessary for the world to come.
Mr. M'Fadden acquiesces in the correctness of this remark, but
desires to inform the practitioner what a sad loss he has met with.
He is sure the gentleman will scarcely believe his word when he
tells him what it is. "I saw how ye felt downright affected when
that nigger o' mine prayed with so much that seemed like honesty and
christianity, last night," he says.
"Yes," interrupts the man of medicine, "he was a wonderful nigger
that. I never heard such natural eloquence nor such pathos; he is a
wonder among niggers, he is! Extraordinary fellow for one raised up
on a plantation. Pity, almost, that such a clergyman should be a
slave."
"You don't say so, Doctor, do you? Well! I've lost him just when I
wanted him most."
"He is not dead?" enquires the physician, suddenly interrupting. He
had seen Mr. M'Fadden's courage fail at the approach of death, and
again recover quickly when the distance widened between that monitor
and himself, and could not suppress the smile stealing over his
countenance.
"Dead! no indeed. Worse-he has run away!" Mr. M'Fadden quickly
retorted, clenching his right hand, and scowling. In another minute
he turns back the sheets, and, with returned strength, makes a
successful attempt to sit up in bed. "I don't know whether I'm
better or worse; but I think it would be all right if I warn't
worried so much about the loss of that preacher. I paid a tremendous
sum for him. And the worst of it is, my cousin deacon Stoner, of a
down-east church, holds a mortgage on my nigger stock, and he may
feel streaked when he hears of the loss;" Mr. M'Fadden concludes,
holding his side to the physician, who commences examining the
wound, which the enfeebled man says is very sore and must be dressed
cautiously, so that he may be enabled to get out and see to his
property.
To the great surprise of all, the wound turns out to be merely a
slight cut, with no appearance of inflammation, and every prospect
of being cured through a further application of a very small bit of
dressing plaster.
The physician smiled, mine host smiled; it was impossible to
suppress the risible faculties. The poor invalid is overpowered with
disappointment. His imagination had betrayed him into one of those
desperate, fearful, and indubitable brinks of death, upon which it
seems the first law of nature reminds us what is necessary to die
by. They laughed, and laughed, and laughed, till Mr. M'Fadden
suddenly changed countenance, and said it was no laughing
affair,--such things were not to be trifled with; men should be
thinking of more important matters. And he looked at the wound, run
his fingers over it gently, and rubbed it as if doubting the depth.
"A little more whiskey would'nt hurt me, Doctor?" he enquires,
complacently, looking round the room distrustfully at those who were
enjoying the joke, more at his expense than he held to be in
accordance with strict rules of etiquette.
"I'll admit, my worthy citizen, your case seemed to baffle my skill,
last night," the physician replies, jocosely. "Had I taken your
political enthusiasm into consideration,--and your readiness to
instruct an assemblage in the holy democracy of our south,--and your
hopes of making strong draughts do strong political work, I might
have saved my opiate, and administered to your case more in
accordance with the skilfully administered prescriptions of our
politicians. Notwithstanding, I am glad you are all right, and trust
that whenever you get your enthusiasm fired with bad brandy, or the
candidates' bad whiskey, you will not tax other people's feelings
with your own dying affairs; nor send for a 'nigger' preacher to
redeem your soul, who will run away when he thinks the job
completed."
Mr. M'Fadden seemed not to comprehend the nature of his physician's
language, and after a few minutes pause he must needs enquire about
the weather? if a coroner's inquest has been held over the dead men?
what was its decision? was there any decision at all? and have they
been buried? Satisfied on all these points, he gets up, himself
again, complaining only of a little muddled giddiness about the
head, and a hip so sore that he scarcely could reconcile his mind to
place confidence in it.
"Good by! good by!" says the physician, shaking him by the hand.
"Measure the stimulant carefully; and take good care of dumplin
dept No. 1, and you'll be all right very soon. You're a good
democrat, and you'll make as good a stump orator as ever took the
field."
The man of medicine, laughing heartily within himself, descends the
stairs and reaches the bar-room, where are concentrated sundry of
the party we have before described. They make anxious enquiries
about Mr. M'Fadden,--how he seemed to "take it;" did he evince want
of pluck? had he courage enough to fight a duel? and could his vote
be taken afore he died? These, and many other questions of a like
nature, were put to the physician so fast, and with so many
invitations to drink "somethin'," that he gave a sweeping answer by
saying Mac had been more frightened than hurt; that the fear of
death having passed from before his eyes his mind had now centered
on the loss of his nigger preacher-a valuable piece of property that
had cost him no less than fifteen hundred dollars. And the worst of
it was, that the nigger had aggravatingly prayed for him when he
thought he was going to sink out into the arms of father death.
So pressing were the invitations to drink, that our man of medicine
advanced to the counter, like a true gentleman of the south, and
with his glass filled with an aristocratic mixture, made one of his
politest bows, toasted the health of all free citizens, adding his
hope for the success of the favourite candidate.
"Drink it with three cheers, standin'!" shouted a formidably
mustached figure, leaning against the counter with his left hand,
while his right was grasping the jug from which he was attempting in
vain to water his whiskey. To this the physic gentleman bows assent;
and they are given to the very echo. Taking his departure for the
city, as the sounds of cheering die away, he emerged from the front
door, as Mr. M'Fadden, unexpectedly as a ghost rising from the tomb,
made his entrance from the old staircase in the back. The
citizens-for of such is our assembly composed-are astonished and
perplexed. "Such a set of scapegoats as you are!" grumbles out the
debutant, as he stands before them like a disentombed spectre. With
open arms they approach him, congratulate him on his recovery, and
shower upon him many good wishes, and long and strong drinks.
A few drinks more, and our hero is quite satisfied with his welcome.
His desire being intimated, mine host conducts himself to the
corn-shed, where he satisfies himself that his faithful property
(the preacher excepted) is all snugly safe. Happy property in the
hands of a prodigious democrat! happy republicanism that makes
freedom but a privilege! that makes a mockery of itself, and
enslaves the noblest blood of noble freemen! They were happy, the
victims of ignorance, contented with the freedom their country had
given them, bowing beneath the enslaving yoke of justice-boasting
democracy, and ready to be sold and shipped, with an invoice of
freight, at the beckon of an owner.
Mr. M'Fadden questions the people concerning Harry's departure; but
they are as ignorant of his whereabouts as himself. They only
remember that he came to the shed at midnight, whispered some words
of consolation, and of his plain fare gave them to eat;--nothing
more.
"Poor recompense for my goodness!" says Mr. M'Fadden, muttering some
indistinct words as he returns to the tavern, followed by a humorous
negro, making grimaces in satisfaction of "mas'r's" disappointment.
Now friends are gathered together, chuckling in great glee over the
large reward offered for the lost parson, for the capture of which
absconding article they have numerous horses, dogs, confidential
negroes, and a large supply of whiskey, with which very necessary
liquid they will themselves become dogs of one kine. The game to be
played is purely a democratic one; hence the clansmen are ready to
loosen their souls' love for the service. M'Fadden never before
witnessed such satisfactory proofs of his popularity; his tenderest
emotions are excited; he cannot express the fullness of his heart;
he bows, puts his hand to his heart, orders the balance of his
invoice sent to his plantation, mounts his horse, and rides off at
full gallop, followed by his friends.