“I hunt,” said the traveller slowly, “Mr. Maximian Roussel.”
A silent bow.
“’Tis you?”
The same motion again.
The traveller produced a slip of paper folded once and containing a line or two of writing hastily pencilled that morning at Belle Alliance. Maximian received it timidly and held it helplessly before his downcast eyes with the lines turned perpendicularly, while the pause grew stifling, and until the traveller said:—
“’Tis Mr. Wallis make that introduction.”
At the name of the owner of the beautiful plantation the man who had not yet spoken rose, covered with whittlings. It was like a steer getting up out of the straw. He spoke.
“M’sieu’ Walleece, a commencé à mouliner? Is big-in to gryne?”
“He shall commence in the centre of the next week.”
Maximian’s eyes rose slowly from the undeciphered paper. The traveller’s met them. He pointed to the missive.