His captain, therefore, exhibited no surprise at the scantiness of Quaco’s clothing; but what did surprise Cubina was the air with which he entered the glade, and some other circumstances that at once arrested his attention.
The skin of the colossus was covered with a white sweat that appeared to be oozing from every pore of his dark epidermis. This might have been occasioned by his long walk—the last hour of it under a broiling sun, and carrying weight, as he was: for the bag upon his back appeared a fifty-pounder, at least, to say nothing of a large musket balanced upon the top of it.
None of these circumstances, however, would account for that inexplicable expression upon his countenance—the wild rolling of his yellow eyeballs—the quick, hurried step, and uncouth gesticulations by which he was signalising his approach.
Though, as already stated, they had arrested the attention of his superior, the latter, accustomed to a certain reserve in the presence of his followers, pretended not to notice them. As his lieutenant came up, he simply said:—
“I am glad you are come, Quaco.”
“An’ a’m glad, Cappin Cubina, I’ve foun’ ye har. War hurryin’ home fass as my legs cud carry me, ’spectin’ to find ye thar.”
“Ha!” said Cubina; “some news, I suppose. Have you met anyone in the woods—that young Englishman from the Jew’s penn? I’m expecting him here. He appears to have missed the way.”
“Han’t met no Englishman, Cappin. Cussos Vaughan am that—I’se a met him!”
“Crambo!” cried Cubina, starting as he uttered the exclamation. “You’ve met Custos Vaughan? When and where?”
“When—dis mornin’. Where—’bout fo’ mile b’yond the crossin’ on the Carrion Crow road. That’s where I met him.”