“Thanks, Yola,” said the young Creole, evidently touched by the words of her attendant, the sincerity of which was proved by the tone in which they were spoken. “Be not afraid of my parting with you. As proof that I shall not, I refused a very large sum—how much, can you guess?”
“Ah! missa, I worth nothing to no one but you. If I you forced leave, I be no more happy in this world.”
“Well, there is one who thinks you worth two hundred pounds, and has offered that for you.”
“Who, missa?”
“Why—he who sold you to papa—Mr Jessuron.”
“Allah help poor Yola! Oh! missa Kate, he bad master; he berry wicked man. Yola die—Cubina kill her! Yola herself kill rather than she go back to Jew slave-dealer! Good missa!—beauty missa!—you no sell you poor slave?”
The girl fell upon her knees at the feet of her young mistress, with her hands clasped over her head, and for some moments remained in this attitude.
“Don’t fear my selling you,” said the young lady, motioning the suppliant to rise to her feet; “least of all to him—whom I believe to be what you have styled him, a very wicked man. Have no fear for that. But tell me, what name was that you pronounced just now? Cubina, was it not?”
“Yes, missa, Cubina.”
“And pray who is Cubina?”