Only my head was visible—a thick bush in front of me concealing my body. The coat of char upon my face was deceiving her.
“No, not a negro,” said I, stepping out and discovering my person—“not a negro, though I have been submitted to the treatment of one.”
“Ho! white, red, and black! Mercy on me, what a frightful harlequin! Ha, ha, ha!”
“My toilet appears to amuse you, fair huntress? I might apologise for it—since I can assure you it is not my own conception, nor is it to my taste any more than—”
“You are a white man, then?” said she, interrupting me—at the same time stepping nearer to examine me.
“I was, yesterday,” I replied, turning half round, to give her a sight of my shoulders, which the Indian artist had left untouched. “To-day, I am as you see.”
“O heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly changing her manner, “this red? It is blood! You are wounded, sir? Where is your wound?”
“In several places I am wounded; but not dangerously. They are only scratches: I have no fear of them.”
“Who gave you these wounds?”
“Indians. I have just escaped from them.”