At this Bart, who had been trying in vain to understand her, finally gave it up, and thought of Solomon. He turned around to speak to him.
To his amazement Solomon was not there.
And now this completed his bewilderment. He drew a long breath, and gave up altogether every effort to understand anything at all.
“Why, where has Solomon gone?” he asked.
“Berryin,” said Black Betsy, gently—“berryin. De ole man dreadful fond o’ berries.”
“Berries? Well, that’s odd. Why, I want to see him.”
“He tink he gib you pleasant ’prise—go pick berries for de dear chicken,” said Black Betsy, in a tender voice.
“But I want him,” said Bart. “I want him now. Where did he go?”
“Don-no, Mas’r Bart—no mor’n a chile. You call out real loud,—you got to call loud fore dat ar ole man’ll har you. He’s got dreadful deaf an hard o’ hearin o’ late—dese times.”
Bart now shouted over and over again, but there was no response. He asked his servant if he had noticed Solomon. The servant had noticed him, and told him about the retreat to the woods. Bart did not know what to make of it all. The apparition of the Flaming Fury had gradually lost its force, and he thought only of the gentle, silvery voice of Black Betsy. The retreat of Solomon, therefore, did not seem to arise from fear of so gentle a being, but from something else—and what could that be?