"Marse Hesden, does yer mind de loft ober de ole dinin'-room, whar we all used ter play ob a Sunday?"
"Of course, I've got my tobacco bulked down there now," was the answer. "Dat's de place, Marse Hesden!"
"But there's no way to get in there except by a ladder," said
Hesden.
"So much de better. You gits de ladder, an' I brings 'Liab."
In a few minutes Eliab was lying on some blankets, hastily thrown over a bulk of leaf tobacco, in the loft over the old dining-room at Mulberry Hill, and Hesden Le Moyne was busy bathing his face, examining his wounds, and endeavoring to restore him to consciousness.
Nimbus waited only to hear his report that the wounds, though numerous and severe, were not such as would be likely to prove fatal. There were several cuts and bruises about the head; a shot had struck the arm, which had caused the loss of blood; and the weakened tendons of the cramped and unused legs had been torn asunder. These were all the injuries Le Moyne could find. Nimbus dropped upon his knees, and threw his arms about the neck of his friend at this report, and burst into tears.
"God bress yer, 'Liab! God bress yer!" he sobbed.
"Nimbus can't do no mo' fer ye, an' don't 'llow he'll nebber see ye no mo'—no mo' in dis world! Good-by, 'Liab, good-by! Yer don't know Nimbus's gwine away, does yer? God bress yer, p'raps it's better so—better so!"
He kissed again and again the pale forehead, from which the dark hair had been brushed back by repeated bathings. Then rising and turning away his head, he extended his hand to Le Moyne and said:
"Good-bye, Marse Hesden! God bress yer! Take good keer o' 'Liab, Mahs'r, an'—an'—ef he gits round agin, don't let him try ter stay h'yrabouts—don't, please! 'Tain't no use! See ef yer can't git him ter go ter de Norf, er somewhar. Oh, my God!" he exclaimed, suddenly, as the memory of his care of the stricken friend came suddenly upon him, "my God! what'll he ebber do widout Nimbus ter keer fer him?"