His movement was so sudden that Lorenzo, and Jack Jimmy, who sprang to their feet at once, were too late to hold him back and save him.
The little negro silently returned to the spot where he had sat since he had come on shore, and hid his face in his hands. Not a word—not a sob escaped him. His grief was too deep and strong for tears.
Morning dawned on the devastated scene of the late hurricane.
Like a strong man who is recovering from illness, nature presented a smiling, though languid look. The billows still ran high, but unlashed now by the wind, they rolled heavily against the rocks.
High and dry lay the bodies of the dead, their pallid faces still locked in the grim passions which had attended the departure of life.
The dawn had scarcely come, when Jack Jimmy might have been seen moving totteringly along the ruffled beach, with a dead body on his shoulders. Away into a solitary recess of the picturesque little bay, he bore his burden. He lay it down, and then slowly began to scoop a hole.
Solemnly he worked—his arms rose and fell like his heart—heavily.
But who comes to interrupt the sacred work! Lorenzo! It was Lorenzo. He had followed Jack Jimmy to the spot. The officer began to dig, too.
“Tap, massa—tap,” said Jack Jimmy, solemnly grasping his arm—“let me one do it.”