“Hah!” ejaculated the poor fellow, feebly; “it’s worth being chopped a bit and lying here for the sake of the appetite it gives you.”
“Appetite, Nat?” said Scarlett, taking up the bread.
“’Tite for water, lad. That’s the sweetest drop I ever did taste, I will say.”
“Drink again?”
“Ay, that I will, hearty,” whispered Nat; and he partook of another long draught. “There,” he said, “now you give me one bit o’ that cake to nibble, and you may go. To get food, didn’t you say, sir, just now?”
“I want some—for my father, Nat, but—if—I can have some of this?”
“Take it all, my dear lad, take it all. Where is the master, sir?”
Scarlett told him in as few words as possible, and Nat stared at him.
“No, it’s of not a bit o’ good, Master Scar,” he said sadly. “I know you’re telling me something, but I bled all the sense out of me, and I can’t understand what you mean. Never mind me. I dare say it’s all right.”
“But, Nat,” cried Scarlett, eagerly, as a thought struck him, and he realised that it was useless to try and impress upon the poor fellow about the secret passage, “you are lying out here.”