One morning, shortly after sunrise, Mark was awakened by the entrance of their jailor. By that time he had grown so accustomed to clanking chains, shooting bolts, and such-like sounds, that he looked up sleepily and without much interest, but a thrill or qualm passed through him when he observed that the jailor was followed by Hater of Lies with his silver spear.
Still more were he and his awakened comrades horrified when the names of Ravoninohitriniony and Voalavo were sternly called out. Both men promptly stood up.
“At last!” said the former, quietly, and without a trace of excitement. “Well, I am glad, for it is the Lord’s will. Farewell, my friends,” he added, looking back as he was led away, “we shall all meet again in great joy—farewell!”
Evidently Voalavo did not take things so quietly. His lips were firmly compressed, his face was deeply flushed, and his brows were sternly contracted, as they led him out. But for his chains the chief would certainly have given his jailors some trouble.
The whole thing passed so quickly that it seemed to those left behind like a dream when they found themselves alone. Ebony sat down, put his face on his knees, and fairly burst into tears.
“Oh! Lord,” he sobbed, “send ’em quick for me, an’ let’s hab it ober!”
It seemed as if the poor fellow’s prayer was about to be answered, for again the door opened, and the Secretary entered.
“Be not afraid,” he said, observing their alarm, “I come not to summon you to death, but to ask you, doctor, to come and see the Queen—she is ill.”
“Oh! massa, pison her! Do, massa! Nobody would call it murder,” said the negro, with fervent entreaty.
Paying no attention to this advice, Mark followed the Secretary, and the bolts were again drawn on his friends.