“The Mahdi has made you his runner,” answered the negro.
“That is strange news rather than bad, is it not?”
“No; it is bad. He do dis ’cause he hate you. Somehow you has anger him. He say he will tame you. He try to tame me,” said the negro, with sudden and tremendous ferocity, “an’ him t’ink he do it! But I only waits my chance to kill him.
“Now he send me again to dirty work, an’ put you in my place to humble you—to insult you before every one, who will say, ‘Look! de bold Christin dog lick de dust now, an’ hold de Mahdi’s stirrup.’”
“This is indeed bad news. But how is it that you, who seem to be free, do not use your opportunity to escape? I saw you holding the Mahdi’s horse. It seems to be a splendid one. Why did you not jump on its back and fly?”
The runner frowned, and then, changing his mood, smiled sadly.
“You is young,” he said, “and knows not’ing. At night I am locked up like yourself. In de day-time de city is full of enemies, who all knows me. Do you t’ink dey will salute, and say, ‘Go in peace,’ to de runner of de Mahdi when he is running away with his best horse?”
“Perhaps not,” said Miles, “but I would try if I were you.”
“You will be me very soon,” returned the runner, “and you can try. I did try—twice. I was caught both times and beat near to death. But I did not die! I learn wisdom; and now I submit and wait my chance to kill him. If you is wise you begin at once to submit and wait too.”
“There is truth in what you say,” rejoined Miles, after a few minutes’ thought. “I will take your advice and submit and wait, but only till the opportunity to escape offers. I would not murder the man even if I had the chance.”