It was bad enough, however, and the negro was certainly not to be wondered at for looking upon her as a dead woman.
But now her eyes were open and staring wildly before her.
The man stooped and peered into the white face, removing his hat with the natural deference of his race for the white woman.
“Good-mawnin’, lady!” he cried, eagerly. To tell the truth, he felt wonderfully relieved to discover that she still lived. “Is you much hurt?”
But there was no answer. The great dark eyes stared blankly into the kindly black face, but there was no gleam of intelligence in their depths. They seemed utterly devoid of expression, and to all appearance sightless, as they stared up into the good-natured countenance of the black man.
He felt a strange sensation of terror quite new to him.
“Kin I do anythin’ for ye, missis?” he persisted.
But still there was no answer, no sign or motion. She lay as still as a graven image, and there was no sign of life.
But the man was relieved. She was living, and therefore, he was guiltless of having caused her death. But what could he do for her?
“I’se gwine git her over to New Orleans,” he muttered at length, decisively; “den I gwine git her inter de hospital.”