“I promise to bring more—whenebber I can get away from the Buff.”
“Das right, my piccaninny! An’ now, gal,” continued he, changing his tone, and regarding the mulatta with a look of interrogation, “wha fo’ you want see me dis night? You hab some puppos partickla? Dat so—eh, gal?”
The mulatta stood hesitating. There are certain secrets which woman avows with reluctance—often with repugnance. Her love is one; and of this she cares to make confession only to him who has the right to hear it. Hence Cynthia’s silent and hesitating attitude.
“Wha fo’ you no ’peak?” asked the grim confessor. “Shoo’ you no hah fear ob ole Chakra? You no need fo’ tell ’im—he know you secret a’ready—you lub Cubina, de capen ob Maroon? Dat troof, eh?”
“It is true, Chakra. I shall conceal nothing from you.”
“Better not, ’cause you can’t ’ceal nuffin from ole Chakra—he know ebbery ting—little bird tell um. Wa now, wha nex’? You tink Cubina no lub you?”
“Ah! I am sure of it,” replied the mulatta, her bold countenance relaxing into an anguished expression. “I once thought he love me. Now I no think so.”
“You tink him lub some odder gal?”
“I am sure of it—Oh, I have reason!”
“Who am dis odder?”