Rody uttered not a word.
“When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I’se happy now when I knows dat de dyin’ planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d, I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I’se a going to do is to sit hyar an’ watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!”
“Oh, devil!” exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.
“Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!”
The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.
And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.
At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.
“Ha—help—water—water! My soul’s on fire! Devils—demons! Away—away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose—ah, horror!”
The cries ceased.
Elias Rody was dead!