“Yes; an unfortunate young negro from the west coast of Africa.”
“Yes, father, but more than that. Hannibal has been telling me, and I think I understand him, though it’s rather hard. They lived in a village up the country, and the enemy came in the night, and killed some, and took the rest prisoners to march them down to the coast, and sell them for slaves. Pomp’s mother was one of them, and she fell down and died on the march.”
“Did Hannibal tell you this?”
“Yes, father, and sat and cried as he told me; and Pompey’s his son.”
“Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. He always calls Pompey ‘my boy,’ and Pomp called him ‘fader’ to-day.”
“Ah, but that may merely be imitation.”
“I don’t think it is,” I said, eagerly; and I proved to be right, for they certainly were father and son.
The winter came and passed rapidly away, and it was never cold to signify, and with the coming spring all thoughts of the Indians and the Spaniards died away.
My father would talk about the Indians’ visitation sometimes, but he considered that it was only to see if we were disposed to be enemies, and likely to attack them; but finding we did not interfere in the least, and were the most peaceable of neighbours, they were content to leave us alone.