“How could you tell that?” said Murray, with a look of horror.
“Seemed pretty plain, sir. All the men had old wounds as well as what must have been given them to finish ’em yes’day morning, sir, when the black fellows forsook the place.”
“But you said—finished the men who had old wounds?”
“Yes, sir; half healed. T’other wounds was fresh, and the women and children—”
“Women and children!” cried Murray excitedly.
“Yes, sir; knocked on the head—clubbed. Didn’t care to take ’em away with them, sir, when we come.”
“Oh, Dick,” said Murray, whose face now looked ghastly, “I knew that there were horrors enough over the slave-trade, but I never thought it could be so bad as that. Here, Tom, where is this? Show me.”
“Don’t be a fool, old chap,” whispered Roberts, grasping his companion’s arm. “You’ve heard what Tom said. I’ve seen it too, and I could tell you, but I won’t. It’s too horrid to go and see again.”
“Yes, it must be horrible,” said the young man passionately; “but you said one poor creature was still alive?”
“Yes, and the doctor’s being fetched.”