"Oh, can it be true, Mas'r Henry, that dere hab been a fight out dere, and people killed?"
"No fight, my poor girl," answered Mr. Thornton; "but I am sorry to tell you, Nat Turner and his gang have been at more mischief, and your master has suffered." The girl wrung her hands, and then said, in a low voice,--
"And Mas'r Robert?"
"One has been killed, and the other badly wounded," replied Mr. Thornton. "You will, doubtless, hear more about it soon, and learn more accurate particulars than I can give you. Who told you anything of a serious nature had happened?" On that point, however, as usual, we could obtain no satisfaction. One negro--and several had now gathered round--had heard it from another, also present, and he from a third, till it made a complete circle, and then went round again. It was evident that some or all were lying; and, giving the question up, Mr. Thornton inquired if they knew anything of the state of poor Hercules.
"He war very bad dis morning," said one of the men; and the girl shook her head and looked sad.
"Let us go on, uncle Henry," said Bessy. "I must see the poor fellow myself. It was in trying to serve me he was injured; and I must see him."
"Well, Bessy, I will not try to stop you," said her uncle; "although, my dear child, I much fear you are over-exerting yourself, and must suffer for all this. Let us go on, however."
[CHAPTER XL.]
When we approached the little semicircle of huts which I have described before, and in which poor Aunt Bab's negroes were lodged, there appeared no crowd round any of the doors, such as I had seen there on a preceding visit. On the contrary, all was now still and silent; and I could not but fear that the wounded man was dead. Mr. Thornton, however, judged better.
"Oh, no!" he answered, when I expressed my apprehension; "they are most likely out in the field. If he were dead, you would hear noise enough. It is only with people educated to control their feelings that grief is silent. With these poor childlike creatures it is always noisy. But there is a horse's head between two of the huts. Perhaps Christy is with him." So it proved. The good surgeon was there, seated on a little stool by the poor man's side, with his fingers on the pulse, and his eyes half closed, almost as if he were dosing. A woman and a child were also in the cabin, standing at a little distance behind the surgeon. Though she was the man's wife, she was quite a young creature--almost a child herself--and she looked quite bewildered with grief and apprehension. We had opened the door without Doctor Christy moving or unclosing his eyes; but the moment Bessy Davenport entered, he started and looked up.