The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his left hand.
"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the cypress.
Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy—a very handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame.
"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present time."
"My father objects to every one I like."
"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his good."
"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this letter."
"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message from you, Massa Davie."
In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike.
"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!"