The poor fellow scrambled to his knees, and looking up with pitiful abjectness, said:
"He is not here—the young master is not here; you said he was."
"Get up and come this way, my poor fellow!" said the captain, touched by the humble pathos of his disappointment.
The negro sprang up and seized the box, which had fallen with a crash on the deck.
"I come, master, I come."
"Hush!" said the kind-hearted sailor, pointing to his berth as they entered the cabin. "Hush! and tell me if that is your young master."
The negro drew in his breath with a sob, and scarcely seemed to respire after that. He crept close up to the berth, and looked down upon the boy with a glow in his black face that it is impossible to describe, for every ugly feature quivered with tenderness, while his eyes filled with light, like those of a Newfoundland dog when he has done brave work for his master.
"What will you do with us, strange master?" he said at last, addressing the captain in a humble whisper. "Not send us back yonder?"
He made a motion toward the town with his hand, and a slow horror crept over his face.
"No, my poor fellow, I will take the child to my own thrice-blessed land, if there is no one left to claim him."