He had already noticed an air of distraction—of dejection, too—in the countenance of the stranger. What could it mean? The gay ribbon knotted in the button-hole of his coat—what could that mean?
Captain Cubina was of the age—and perhaps just then in the very temper—to observe all matters that appeared indications of a certain soft sentiment; and both the blue ribbon and the thoughtful attitude were of that signification. He knew something of the white denizens of Mount Welcome—more, perhaps, of those with a coloured skin. Could the odd behaviour of the young Englishman be attributed to some family difficulty that might have arisen there?
The Maroon mentally answered this interrogatory for himself: with the reflection that something of the kind had occurred.
Perhaps Captain Cubina was not merely guessing! Perhaps he had already listened to some whisper of plantation gossip: for electricity itself can scarce travel faster than news in the negro quarter!
If the hunter-captain had any suspicions as to the real position of his woodland guest, he was polite enough not to express them. On the contrary, he waived the opportunity given him by Herbert’s ambiguous rejoinder, and simply said—
“If you are going elsewhere, you will need a guide all the same. This glade is surrounded by a wide stretch of tangled woods. There is no good path leading anywhere.”
“You are very kind,” answered Herbert, touched by the delicate solicitude of this man with a coloured skin. “I wish to reach Montego Bay; and if one of your men would set me on the main road, I should certainly feel under great obligations. As to rewarding him for his trouble, beyond thanking him, I am sorry to say that circumstances just now have placed it out of my power.”
“Master Vaughan!” said the Maroon, smiling courteously as he spoke, “were you not a stranger to us and our customs, I should feel offended. You speak as if you expected me to present you with a bill for your breakfast. You seem to forget that, scarce an hour ago, you threw yourself before the muzzle of a pistol to protect the life of a Maroon—a poor outcast mulatto of the mountains! And now—but I forgive you. You know me not—”
“Pardon me, Captain Cubina; I assure you—”
“Say no more! I know your English heart, master—still uncorrupted by vile prejudices of caste and colour. Long may it remain so; and whether Captain Cubina may ever see you again, remember! that up yonder in the Blue Mountain,”—the Maroon pointed as he spoke to the purple outline of a mountain ridge, just visible over the tops of the trees—“up yonder dwells a man—a coloured man, it is true, but one whose heart beats with gratitude perhaps as truly as that of the whitest; and should you ever feel the fancy to honour that man with a visit, under his humble roof you will find both a friend and a welcome.”