Jubilee Jim hesitated, then turned and left the room. When he came back the striped garments were in his hands.
"Do you—know what—those are?"
The faithful, old face turned a little away. "Ah reck'n dem am some new-fangelly fishin'-close," he said, after a pause.
A faint flicker of a smile touched the sick man's face. He understood. "Put them—into—the fire."
Sevier watched him, as he obeyed. He was very weak and his blood, poisoned from the opened wound, was throbbing with fever. He was preserving consciousness only by a great effort, but his gaze held Jubilee Jim's steadily.
"Jube, I want—no one to—know when I—came, or that I—am here—at all ... No one ... Do you—understand?"
"Yas, suh."
"I'm going—to be—sick. But—no matter—how sick I—no one is to—be brought here ... not a doctor ... nor—any one." Harry's strength was failing now, and the words trailed into indistinctness.
"Yas, Marse Harry."
"I ... trust you ... Jube!"