“My poor fellow, only speak,” said my father, who was much moved, while I felt choking.
“If Han die, massa be kind to Pomp?”
“No,” cried the boy, with a passionate burst of grief, “Pomp die too.”
“And Massa George be good to um.”
“Oh, Han,” I cried, in a broken voice, as I knelt on the opposite side to my father, and held the poor fellow’s other hand.
He looked keenly in both our faces, and though neither of us spoke, he was satisfied, and half closed his eyes.
“Han sleep now,” he said.
Just then the doctor bent in at the opening of the tent, and signed to us to come out, and we obeyed.
“Let him sleep, boy,” he whispered to Pomp. “Don’t speak to him, but if he asks for anything fetch me.”
Pomp nodded; he could not answer, and we accompanied the doctor to his rough tent only a few yards away.