"For Heaven's sake, master, contain yourself a bit, or I shan't come out of this business with a whole skin yet. I doubt but you have waked some of the cursed Portugals by your antics."
With this he creeps over to the door, and thrusting his head over the stairs stands there listening carefully a minute or two; after which, seeming satisfied that no one was astir, he closes the door gently, and creeps back to me, by which time I had come to a more sober condition, though still near choking with the bounding of my heart and the throbbing of the blood in my veins for excess of joy.
"'Tis all quiet below," says he in a whisper; "but betwixt getting my throat cut by you, and being fleaed alive by the Portugals for being here, I've had a narrow squeak. Howsomever, I suppose you bear me no ill-will?"
"Heaven forgive me for treating you as an enemy!" says I, grasping his hand again.
"As for that," says he, "I don't blame you for your intent to stick me if you thought I was one of those accursed Portugals; and how were you to know better, finding me crawling on you in their own manner. Let us drink a dram, master, to our better acquaintance; 'twill stiffen our legs and clear our heads, and mine are all of a jelly-shake with this late bout."
"Where is my cousin?" I asked him, as he was drinking from the jar.
"That's good," says he, taking the jar from his mouth and handing it to me. "Take a pull at it—asking your pardon for drinking first, but I've lost my good manners with twelve years of slavery."
"My cousin," says I—"the lady in whose name you wrote that letter?"
"Drink," says he. "We've got no time to lose if, as I do hope, you're minded to get away from this."
"Ay," says I; "but my cousin?"