“Ay, bless her! and she didn’t tell on us.”
“Yes, she did,” said Abel, sourly; and he turned his back upon his companion, and toiled away to hide the working of his face.
The sun shone down as hotly as it can shine in the West Indies, and the coarse shirts the young men wore showed patches of moisture where the perspiration came through, but they worked on, for the labour deadened the misery in their breasts.
And yet it was a very paradise, as far as nature was concerned. Man had spoiled it as far as he could, his cultivation being but a poor recompense for turning so lovely a spot into a plantation, worked by convicts—by men who fouled the ambient air each moment they opened their lips; while from time to time the earth was stained with blood.
In the distance shone the sea, and between the plantation and the silver coral sands lay patches of virgin forest, where the richest and most luxuriant of tropic growth revelled in the heat and moisture, while in the sunny patches brilliant flowers blossomed. Then came wild tangle, cane-brake, and in one place, where a creek indented the land, weird-looking mangroves spread their leafage over their muddy scaffolds of aërial roots.
“How long have we been here, mate?” said Bart, after a pause.
“Dunno,” replied Abel, fiercely.
Here he began chopping more vigorously.
“How long will they keep us in this here place?” said Bart, after another interval, and he looked from the beautiful shore at the bottom of the slope on which they worked to the cluster of stone and wood-built buildings, which formed the prison and the station farm, with factory and mill, all worked by convict labour, while those in the neighbourhood were managed by blacks.
Abel did not answer, only scowled fiercely; and Bart sighed, and repeated his question.