“Your words remind me of de good Gordon. He was not vengeful. He loved God,” said the runner, in a low and very different tone. “But,” he added, “Gordon was a white man. He did not—could not—understand de feelings of de black chief.”
As the last remark opened up ground which Miles was not prepared to traverse, he made no rejoinder but asked the runner what the Mahdi required of him in his new capacity.
“He require you to learn de city, so as you know how to run when you is told—an’ I is to teach you, so you come wid me,” said the runner, rising.
“But am I to go in this costume, or rather in this half-naked state?” asked Miles, rising and spreading out his hands as he looked down at his unclothed chest and lower limbs.
“You not cause for be ashamed,” replied the runner, with a nod.
This was true, for the hard travelling which Miles had recently endured, and the heavy burdens which he had borne, had developed his muscles to such an extent that his frame was almost equal to that of the negro, and a fit subject for the sculptor’s chisel.
“Your white skin will p’r’aps blister at first,” continued the runner, “but your master will be glad for dat. Here is a t’ing, however, will save you shoulders. Now, you makes fuss-rate runner.”
He took the little green tippet off his own shoulders and fastened it on those of his successor.
“Come now,” he added, “let us see how you can run.”
They passed out into the street together, and then poor Miles felt the full sense of his degradation, when he saw some of the passers-by stop to gaze with looks of hatred or contempt or amusement at the “Christian captive.”