“Don’t know nuffin’. Arter I poke de holes in de scoundrils, I was ’bleeged to bolt. When I come back, de ole house was in flames, an’ eberybody gone—what wasn’t dead. I hollered—ay, till I was a’most busted—but nobody reply. Den I bury de dead ones, an’ I’ve hoed about eber since slobberin’ an’ wringin’ my hands.”
“Was our old clerk among the slain?” asked Lawrence.
“No, massa, but I tinks he’s a dead one now, for he too ole to run far.”
“And I suppose you can’t even guess where any of those who escaped went to?”
“Couldn’t guess more nor a Red Injin’s noo-born babby.”
“Quashy,” said Lawrence in a low voice, “be careful how you speak of Indians.”
He glanced, as he spoke, at Manuela, who now sat with grave face and downcast eyes, having apparently found that the human countenance, however expressive, failed to make up for the want of language.
And, truly, Quashy’s countenance was unwontedly mobile and expressive. Every feature seemed to possess the power of independently betraying the thoughts and feelings of the man, so that when they all united for that end the effect was marvellous. Emotional, and full of quick sympathy, Quashy’s visage changed from grave to gay, pitiful to fierce, humorous to savage, at a moment’s notice. When, therefore, he received the gentle rebuke above referred to, his animated countenance assumed a sudden aspect of utter woe and self-condemnation that may be conceived but cannot be described, and when Lawrence gave vent to a short laugh at the unexpected change, Quashy’s eyes glistened with an arch look, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.
And what an expansion that was, to be sure! when you take into account the display of white teeth and red gums by which it was accompanied.
“Well, now, Quash,” resumed Lawrence, “what did you do after that?”