“Have they caught the rascals?” asked Lawrence, suddenly recollecting what had passed, and raising himself on one elbow.
“I not know, massa. Nobody here to tell.”
“How—what—where are the troops?”
“Dun know, massa; gone arter de Injins, I s’pose, an’ de Injins gone arter deir own business, an’ bof gone off de face ob de art’ altogidder—so far as I can see.”
Lawrence started up in great anxiety, and although still giddy from the effects of his fall, could see plainly enough that neither troops nor Indians were to be seen—only a mighty sea of waving grass with a clear horizon all round, and nothing to break the monotony of the vast solitude save their two horses browsing quietly a few yards off.
“Quashy, it strikes me that we shall be lost,” said Lawrence, with anxious look.
“’Smy opinion, massa, dat we’s lost a’ready.”
“Come,” returned Lawrence, rising with some difficulty, “let’s mount and be off after them. Which way did they go—that is, at what point of the compass did they disappear?”
Quashy’s face assumed the countless wrinkles of perplexity. He turned north, south, east, and west, with inquiring glances at the blank horizon, and of course gave a blank reply.
“You see, massa,” he said, apologetically, “you hoed a-rollin’ ober an’ ober in sitch a way, dat it rader confused me, an’ I forgits to look whar we was, an’ den I was so awrful cut up for fear you’s gone dead, dat I t’ink ob nuffin else—an’ now, it’s too late!”