“Mass’ George,” he said, and he tried to raise one of his hands.
“Oh, Hannibal!” I cried. “I did not know you were so ill. Pomp, why didn’t you tell me?”
The boy raised his face all wet with tears, and his eyes swollen. “How Pomp know?” he cried. “Fader nebber tell um.”
“Don’t talk, Hannibal, my man,” said my father, gently. “We none of us knew, my boy. The poor fellow was wounded, and has been going about all this time with an arrow-head in his side, saying nothing, but patiently bearing it all. My poor brave fellow,” he continued, taking the man’s hand, “you have always been risking your life in our defence.”
“Han belong to Mass’ Capen,” he said, feebly, as he smiled at us. “If arrow not hit um, hit massa.”
“What!” said my father, eagerly, as if he suddenly recollected something; “was it that night when you dragged me back, as the arrows flew so fast?”
Hannibal smiled, and clung to the hand which held his.
“Yes; I remember now feeling you start,” said my father. “Yes—what is it?”
He leaned over the rough bed that had been made for the wounded man, for the black’s lips moved.
“Massa do somefin for Han?” he said.