“What a pity to let these rare things go to ruin when they might be put to good use,” she thought as her eyes sought the bed. A mulatto stood at the bedside, fanning the occupant vigorously. So engrossed was he that he did not heed Victoria’s footsteps. She approached the bed with an awed manner which one is apt to use in a sick chamber.
“Is your patient ill?” she whispered, touching him upon the arm. He turned with a start, and gazed with a frightened look at her and the child. Then he seized her roughly by the arm and strove to push her from the room, but Victoria, who had by this time recovered her usual calm manner, resolved to end this long hidden mystery. She did not remember of ever having seen this negro before, but no doubt he was one of their own men. She turned haughtily upon him. “I am your mistress,” she said, raising her hand. “Don’t dare to touch me. Your master has given his consent to my coming here. Now, tell me who is this man, and if he is not ill why he remains so quiet?”
The man released her with a gutteral sound, which made her start, and wildly moved his arms about, while he opened his mouth and pointed at it. To her horror she saw that he had no tongue.
“Great heavens!” she ejaculated, “what mystery is here?” Her tone was very tender as she added pityingly: “My poor man, I did not know of your affliction. Can you hear? Do you understand what I say?”
He nodded assent.
“Then, who is the man in that bed?”
He shook his head slowly.
“You do not know?” she asked in surprise. “How long has he been here? How long have you been here?”
Again the man shook his head, this time with an air of sadness most pitiful to Victoria.
“Poor fellow,” she said, gently stroking his arm. Then, as a thought came to her, she added: “Can you read and write?” Again that mournful gesture more sad than tears.