“It’s a spirit,” he said, “come back to her;” and then the poltroon fainted dead away.
Chapter Eleven.
In the Plantation.
Someone singing a West Country ditty.
“His sloe-black eyes...”
A pause in the singing, and the striking of several blows with a rough hoe, to the destruction of weeds in a coffee-plantation; while, as the chops of the hoe struck the clods of earth, the fetters worn by the striker gave forth faint clinks.
Then in a pleasant musical voice the singer went on with another line—
“And his curly hair...”