With which thought he smiled still more resolutely than before, and squeezed the tears from his eyes very tenderly, in order, probably, to keep those useful organs as "wigorous" as possible for the work before him.
Handcuffed and securely bound to the rock, that modern Prometheus, Captain Lysander Sprowl, like his mythical prototype, felt the vulture's beak in his vitals. Chagrin devoured his liver. An overflow of southern bile was the result, and he turned yellow to the whites of his eyes.
Old Toby noticed the phenomenon. Poor old Toby, with that foolish head and large tropical heart of his, knew no better than to feel a movement of compassion.
"Kin uh do any ting fur ye, sar?"
The unfeigned sympathy of the question gave the wily Prometheus his cue. He uttered a feeble moan, and studied to look as much sicker than he was as possible.
Pity at the sight made the old negro forget much which a white man would have been apt to remember—the disgrace this wretch had brought upon "the family;" and the recent cruel whipping, from which his own back was still sore.
"Ye pooty sick, sar?"
"Water!" gasped Lysander.
The patriots had finished their coffee and taken their guns. Toby ran to them.