Hudson had related these events to the distracted boy while they made their way toward the house.
Inside, upon a low pallet, lay the little negro, breathing heavily, his black face pinched and ashen with approaching death. He had wanted no one to touch him further than to lay him upon the bed.
The few men and colored women gathered in the room were looking upon him with pity mingled with curiosity.
When he saw Chouchoute he closed his eyes, and a shiver passed through his small frame. Those about him thought he was dead. Chouchoute knelt, choking, at his side and held his hand.
"O Wash, Wash! W'at you did that for? W'at made you, Wash?"
"Marse Chouchoute," the boy whispered, so low that no one could hear him but his friend, "I was gwine 'long de big road, pas' Marse Gros-Léon's, an' I seed Spunky tied dah wid de mail. Dar warn't a minute—I 'clar', Marse Chouchoute, dar warn't a minute—to fotch you. W'at makes my head tu'n 'roun' dat away?"
"Neva mine, Wash; keep still; don't you try to talk," entreated Chouchoute.
"You ain't mad, Marse Chouchoute?"
The lad could only answer with a hand pressure.
"Dar warn't a minute, so I gits top o' Spunky—I neva seed nuttin' d'ar de road like dat. I come 'long side—de train—an' fling de sack. I seed 'im kotch it, and I don' know nuttin' mo' 'cep' mis'ry, tell I see you—a-comin' frough de do'. Mebby Ma'ame Armand know some'pin," he murmured faintly, "w'at gwine make my—head quit tu'nin' 'round dat away. I boun' to git well, 'ca'se who—gwine—watch Marse—Chouchoute?"