It was dark now, very dark. He arose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, whistled a bar of an old familiar hymn, and slowly sauntered round the cabin.
“God pity the gal!” he muttered. “Ay, fur thar’s no pity hyar for her. She’ll hev a sad life or death—it don’t make much odds which it is. I’ll keep my hand off her—poor gal!”
Sauntering around the house as he said this, he heard a faint sigh inside; a sigh long-drawn and sad.
“She heerd me,” he muttered. “Poor gal!”
He went back to his station, and, lighting his pipe, leaned his back up against the log walls; new and strange feelings arose within him, and he was—
Hist! was not that a light step inside? Was not that the sound of the door moving? Was some one coming in or going out? Yes; there was some one going out.
“Durn me ef I don’t feel cheap ter-night, helpin’ keep a nice gal close shet up ter be treated God knows how by the Cap’n! It’s too bad—too bad!”
He softly rose and took a step or two toward the door; he heard a noise there. He was aware that Downing was in the brown cabin asleep; he well knew no other durst venture to the white one at this time; what was up? He stooped and listened. There was a faint rustling as if of the dress of a female, and a steady grating was kept up on the hard ground near the door. He peeped at the log. It was slowly moving, propelled by an invisible force.
As he looked at the log, a fire came in his gray, cool eye, and he softly went back to his seat and sat down quietly.
“Poor, pooty gal! God bless her!”