“Ah! then, sir, anything a poor Maroon hunter could do for you would not be much. All the same, you have my thanks; and if—; but, master,” continued the speaker, suddenly changing his tone, as if in obedience to some instinct of curiosity, “may I make bold to ask why you are afoot so early? The sun is not yet ten minutes above the trees, and Mount Welcome is three miles distant. You must have tracked it here in the dark—no easy matter, through these tangled woods?”
“I passed the night here,” replied the Englishman, smiling; “that was my bed, where the boar is now sleeping.”
“Then the gun is yours, not his?”
The hunter nodded interrogatively towards the runaway, who, standing some paces off, was regarding both the speakers with glances of gratitude, not, however, unmingled with some signs of uneasiness.
“Yes, it is my gun. I am very glad the piece was not empty: since it enabled him to destroy the fierce brute that would otherwise have had him by the throat. Wretched as the poor fellow appears, he handled his weapon well. What is he, and what have they been doing to him?”
“Ah, Master Vaughan; by those two questions, it is easy to tell you are a stranger to the island. I think I can answer both—though I never saw the young man before. Poor wretch! The answers are written out upon his skin, in letters that don’t require much scholarship to read. Those upon his breast tell that he’s a slave—the slave of J.J.: Jacob Jessuron. You’ll excuse me from giving my opinion of him.”
“What have they done to you, my poor fellow?” asked Herbert of the runaway—his compassion hindering him from waiting for the more roundabout explanation of the Maroon.
The blood-bedaubed creature, perceiving that the speech was addressed to him, made a long rejoinder; but in a tongue unknown both to the hunter and Herbert. The latter could distinguish two words that he had heard before—“Foolah” and “Allah”—both of which occurred repeatedly in the speech.
“It’s no use asking him, Master Vaughan. Like yourself, he’s a stranger to the island; though, as you see, they’ve already initiated him into some of its ways. Those brands upon his breast are nearly fresh—as you may tell by the red skin around the letters. He’s just been landed from Africa, it appears. As for the marks upon his back—those have been made by a plaything, the white planters and their overseers in these parts are rather too fond of using—the cart-whip! They’ve been flogging the poor devil; and, Crambo! they’ve given it to him thick and sharp.”
As the Maroon made this remark, he raised the blood-stained shirt, exposing to view that back so terribly reticulated. The sight was sickening. Herbert could not bear to gaze upon it; but averted his eyes on the instant.