“Hi! Ebony,” hailing the negro, “tell Marie to come here. She is in the palm-grove.”
Ebony found his mistress and delivered his message.
Madame Zeppa was a pretty little fair woman, of French extraction. She had been a lady’s-maid, and, having been born and brought up chiefly in England, spoke English fluently, though with a slightly foreign accent derived from her mother.
“Missis,” said the negro, in a low voice, and with a mysterious look, as he followed her out of the palm-grove, “massa him wants to go wid schooner. Don’ let him go.”
“Why not, Ebony?”
“Kase I no likes him.”
“You don’t like the schooner?”
“No, de cappin ob de skooner. Hims bad man for certin. Please don’ let massa go.”
“You know I never give master his orders,” returned madame, with a light laugh.
“Better if you did, now an’ den,” muttered the negro, in a tone, however, which rendered the advice not very distinct.