It was for the report of the fire-arms that he listened, but the sound which met his ear was of altogether a different nature. It was the evening chorus of the negroes, floating upon the tranquil air. A sweet harmonious strain of melody, which breathed of peace and repose:
"Day is dying, day is gone,
Weary niggers, rest;
Work all day, and toil and moan,
Quiet night is best!"
"Poor fellows," said Mortimer, "they are Craig's negroes, returning to their cabins after the day's labor. They sing, poor simple creatures. The overseer's lash cannot destroy the quiet content of their honest hearts. How easily might a good master make them happy."
Again the voices rise upon the balmy air:
"Far from home, and child, and wife,
Weary niggers, weep,
Day goes by in toil and strife,