“Whose, in the name of Heaven, were they?”
“Dey war doze ob dat po’, des’late young creeter wot war murdered by her man, an’ t’rowed inter de crik dat same night, as I could a testimonied at de Cow’s Quest, ef I had been sent for or eben ef I had known wot war gwine on yere at de time. But no one t’ought ob sendin’ for me, a ole ’oman cripple up wid de rheumatiz an’ not able to creep no furder dan to fill my bucket at de spring outside de do’! ’Deed, I nebber heerd nuffin ’tall ’bout wot happen till it war too late to edify de Cow’s Jury. Soon as I did year it, I creeped up yere to tell yer wot I knowed; but yer war too ill to be ’sturbed—so dey said, an’ I ’spect as dey war yight. So I ’solved to keep de secret till yer war able for to year it; ’caze I didn’t want to make no mo’ stracshun in de neighborhood wid no mo’ news till I could ’vise long ob you ’bout it, sah. An’ so I come up yere two or three times ebbery week, but dey wouldn’ leabe me come to yer—no dey wouldn’! I’s moughty t’ankful as I has cotch yer to-day, Marse Tudor.”
CHAPTER II
NEW HOPE
Hereward was suffering from terrible excitement. We said a little while since that his soul seemed dead within him. And as resuscitation is always more distressing than asphyxia, so the infusion of a ray of hope that gave new life to his spirit caused much anguish.
It required all his recovered power of mind to control his emotion.
“Adah!” he said, “what you tell me is so strange, so startling, so incredible, that I have the greatest difficulty in receiving it! What good reason have you for believing—believing that?”
Again Hereward broke down.
“Dat de ’mains foun’ in de crik wor not doze ob my dear young mist’ess, but wor doze ob dat young gal wot wor made way wid by her man? Yer see I kin ’lude to dem ’mains d’out lozin’ ob my head ’caze I knows dey wor doze ob dat po’ murdered gal. Ef I eben s’picioned as dey wor doze ob my dear young mist’ess I couldn’ speak ob dem, no, no mo’ dan yer can yerse’f, Marse Tudor.”
“Yes; but what proof—what proof have you?” breathlessly inquired Hereward.
“I’s gwine to tell yer, Marse Tudor, ef yer will on’y ’pose yerse’f an’ hab patience. ’Deed, I ’spects as Mrs. Jab’ll take de head offen my shou’ders fo’ ’citin’ ob yer so.”