“Are you speaking the truth, Ebony?” asked the colonel, seriously, calmly.
“As I’s a born nigger dat’s de truf, Massa Sanfor’.”
“Then forgive me, old boy, for my hasty accusal,” said the colonel, extending his hand to the darky. “Florence has been missing for four years, and we always suspicioned you of stealing her away.”
“Dis nigger cherishes nuffin ill in his heart to’rds ole Massa Sanfor’,” said Ebony, grasping the colonel’s hand, “but oh! how his heart aches when he t’inks ob dat awful—awful ’fair at the Debbil’s Tarn.”
“Hush, Ebony, about the Devil’s Tarn,” said Sanford in a whisper. “It racks my soul with torture. Promise me you’ll not mention it again.”
“I promise,” said the negro.
“Then let us be seated and talk of other things.”
They all gathered around the fire and Colonel Sanford informed the two hunters of their mission there.
“Be garry, and it’s Flick O’Flynn of Carricksfergus that can bate in more rhed niggars’ skulls than any man on the job, and yees kin count mees in on the parsuit av the ghal, also. Wirra! but mees am in me glory when swinging me old shillalah among the dirthy blackg’ards, so it is, so it—Har—rk!”
Though the Hibernian was talking quite boisterously, his practiced ear caught a far-off and peculiar sound, coming from the Black Hills.