“Why, wasn’t she de wife of Warren Walraven? and wasn’t poor Massa Walraven de good master ob dis poor, black nigger?”
“And what about your master and the Devil’s Tarn of which he forbade you speaking?”
“Oh, good Lor’! don’t ask dat,” the negro replied, glancing toward the form of the colonel. “I fears him,” pointing to the dead.
“He is dead; you need not fear him now.”
“De spirit ain’t dead—no, no; I’ll tells you some time, not now.”
Ebony was obstinate, and as Frank could elicit no information from him he turned away, greatly mystified.
By this time day was breaking, and before long the sun arose clear and warm.
Flick O’Flynn went out in search of food for breakfast, and soon returned with a quarter of deer-meat. A fire was struck and a great quantity of the venison roasted.
Breakfast over, a sad duty was to be performed—the duty of interring the colonel’s body.
An hour was spent in digging a shallow grave; the dirt being loosened with hunting-knives and thrown out by the hands. The form of the colonel was now wrapped in a blanket taken from the shoulders of one of the dead Indians, his face covered with his hat, and then laid away in the narrow sepulcher.