“Quashy!” he exclaimed, as the black fell on his knees, seized one of his hands, and covered it with kisses, at the same time bursting into tears.
“Oh! massa Lawrie—oh! massa Lawrie, why you no come sooner? Why you so long? De sodger brutes nebber dar to touch de ole house if you was dere. Oh! Massa Lawrie, you’s too late—too late!—My! how you’s growed!”
In the midst of his sobs the young negro, for he was little more than a youth, drew back his head to obtain a better view of his old companion and playmate.
Need we say that Lawrence reciprocated the affection of the man?
“He was a boy like myself when I was here,” said Lawrence in explanation to the amused Peruvian. “His father was one of my father’s most attached servants, whom he brought from Kentucky on his way to this land, and to whom he gave his freedom. Quashy himself used to be my playmate.—But tell me about the attack on the mill, Quash. Were you present?”
“Prisint! You bery sure I was, an’ I poke some holes in de varmints ’fore dey hoed away.”
“And how did you escape, Quash? Come, sit down and tell me all about it.”
The negro willingly complied. Meanwhile the Indian girl, who had been roused by his sudden entrance, resumed her seat on the saddle, and, looking intently into his black face, seemed to try to gather from the expression of his features something of what he said.
We need not repeat the story. It was a detailed account of murder and destruction; the burning of the place and the scattering of the old servants. Fortunately Lawrence had no relatives to deplore.
“But don’t you know where any of the household have gone?” he asked, when the excited negro paused to recover breath.