“His horse at the gate? And why, pray, do you grieve about that?”
“’Ecause, Mass’ Woodley, ’ecause de hoss—dat am Massa Henry hoss—’ecause de anymal—”
“Speak out, you stammering nigger! What because? I suppose the horse has his head upon him? Or is it his tail that is missing?”
“Ah, Mass’ Woodley, dis nigga fear dat am missin’ wuss dan eider him head or him tail. I’se feer’d dat de ole hoss hab loss him rider!”
“What! Henry thrown from his horse? Nonsense, Pluto! My son is too good a rider for that. Impossible that he should have been pitched out of the saddle—impossible!”
“Ho! ho! I doan say he war frown out ob de saddle. Gorramity! I fear de trouble wuss dan dat. O! dear ole Massa, I tell you no mo’. Come to de gate ob do hashashanty, and see fo youseff.”
By this time the impression conveyed by Pluto’s speech—much more by his manner—notwithstanding its ambiguity, had become sufficiently alarming; and not only the planter himself, but his daughter and nephew, hastily forsaking their seats, and preceded by the sable coachman, made their way to the outside gate of the hacienda.
A sight was there awaiting them, calculated to inspire all three with the most terrible apprehensions.
A negro man—one of the field slaves of the plantation—stood holding a horse, that was saddled and bridled. The animal wet with the dews of the night, and having been evidently uncared for in any stable, was snorting and stamping the ground, as if but lately escaped from some scene of excitement, in which he had been compelled to take part.
He was speckled with a colour darker than that of the dewdrops—darker than his own coat of bay-brown. The spots scattered over his shoulders—the streaks that ran parallel with the downward direction of his limbs, the blotches showing conspicuously on the saddle-flaps, were all of the colour of coagulated blood. Blood had caused them—spots, streaks, and blotches!