It was a great relief to Ralph to find that Mr. Arthur took this view of the matter—a very singular one, he thought, for the owner of five or six hundred slaves; yet, from what he had seen of his kind friend, he was not surprised at it.
The planter was curious to visit the scene of the adventure, and, with some difficulty, they made their way to the place.
“Why, Ralph,” he exclaimed, looking at the dead animal, and then at the surroundings of the spot, “it is fearful! Had I known what you were about, I should have given you up for lost. Not a tree within twenty rods of you! Suppose you had failed to kill him? It frightens me to think of it!”
Going to the ledge beyond, they saw where the negro had scrambled up with muddy feet, and where the sharp hoofs of the boar had scratched long lines on the rock.
It was easy to see how the large, loose stone, which had prevented the fugitive’s
escape, had slipped from its place as he tried to climb over it.
“Well, well,” said Mr. Arthur, “you ought to have one good friend in the forest, and I guess you have! I don’t think that poor fellow will ever forget you.”
Ralph felt that this was pay enough, even though the friend was only a poor negro, whom he might never see again.
And now, leaving the huge game where it had fallen, he accompanied the good planter back to the little village of huts, where Mrs. Arthur and Camilla were awaiting them in some anxiety.