"I've got a prisoner," said Carl.
"Dead! O de debil!" said Toby.
"I've knocked him on the head a little, but he is not dead," said Carl. "Be still, for there's forty more vithin hearing!"
Toby, with mouth agape, and hands on knees, crouching, looked in the face of the lifeless man. That jaunty mustache, with the blood from the nostrils trickling into it, was unmistakable.
"Dat Sprowl!" ejaculated the old negro, with horrified recoil.
"He won't hurt you! Take holt! I pelief Ropes is coming, mit his men, now!"
"Le' 'm drap, den. Wha' ye totin' on him fur?"
Carl had quite recovered from his stupefaction. His wits were clear again. Why did he not leave the body? His reasons against such a course were too many to be enumerated on the spot to Toby. In the first place, he had promised to take the captain to the cave; and he felt a stubborn pride in keeping his engagement. Secondly, the man might die if he abandoned him. Moreover, the troops arriving, and finding him, would know at once what had happened; while, on the contrary, if both Carl and the captain should be missing, it would be supposed that they had gone to make observations in another quarter; they would be waited for, and thus much time would be gained.
Carl had all these arguments in his brain. But instead of stopping to explain anything, he once more, and alone, lifted the head and shoulders of the limp man, and recommenced bearing him along.
"Toby, who is that?"