But for the two reports, I should have fancied that he had fired the rifle in my direction, and was under the impression he might have hit me.
“You are not shot? Gorramighty be thank you are not shot, Massr George.”
“Why, Jake, what does it all mean?”
At this moment he emerged from the heavy timber, and in the open ground I had a clear view of him.
His aspect did not relieve me from the apprehension that something strange had occurred.
He was the very picture of terror, as exhibited in a negro. His eyes were rolling in their sockets—the whites oftener visible than either pupil or iris. His lips were white and bloodless; the black skin upon his face was blanched to an ashy paleness; and his teeth chattered as he spoke. His attitudes and gestures confirmed my belief that he was in a state of extreme terror.
As soon as he saw me, he ran hurriedly up, and grasped me by the arm—at the same time casting fearful glances in the direction whence he had come, as if some dread danger was behind him!
I knew that under ordinary circumstances Jake was no coward—Quite the contrary. There must have been peril then—what was it?
I looked back; but in the dark depths of the forest shade, I could distinguish no other object than the brown trunks of the trees.
I again appealed to him for an explanation.