Dat's right; lean on yer mammy.

I'll git dem old cunjers outen you." Thus encouraged and supported, Sandy stumbled on through the dark, up a hillside that seemed never to end, across a bridge, then into a tiny log cabin, where he dropped exhausted.
Off and on during the night he knew that there was a fire in the room, and that strange things were happening to him.

But it was all so queer and unnatural that he did not know where the dreams left off and the real began.

He was vaguely conscious of his left foot being tied to the right bedpost, of a lock of his hair being cut off and burned on the hearth, and of a low monotonous chant that seemed to rise and fall with the flicker of the flames.

And when he cried out with the pain in his sleep, a kindly black face bent over him, and the chant changed into a soothing murmur: "Nebber you min', sonny; Aunt Melvy gwine git dem cunjers out.