But the loss of that, though it somewhat fretted him, had saved his life.
He found himself in a retired spot, and no one being near, he sat down to reflect and recover his breath.
"What a country this is," he thought; "pleasant enough, though, as far as the climate goes; but the people in it are awful! What a lot of bloodthirsty, bilious-looking wretches, to be sure; ready to consign to torture and death a poor innocent, unprotected orphan because he happens to be of a different colour from themselves!"
So perturbed were the thoughts of Mr. Figgins that he was obliged to smoke a cigar to soothe himself.
But even this failed to quiet his agitated nerves.
His mind was full of gloomy apprehensions.
"Where am I?" he asked himself. "How am I to get home? I shall be sure to meet some of the rabble, and with them and the dogs I shall be torn to pieces. What will become of me—wretched orphan that I am! What shall I do?"
Hardly had he uttered these distressful exclamations when a prolonged note of melody caught his ear.
"Hark!" he said to himself, "there is music. 'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,' says the poet, and it seems to have a soothing effect upon my nerves."
The strain had died away, and was heard no longer.