“But what if the Zombi should come?”
“I do not fear him,” replied the boy, with a pensive smile.
“He may carry you away, my son, and then the poor negro Gomez will have no one to console him in his slavery.”
“Oh, how sad, how dreadful it is to be a slave!” exclaimed the boy, weeping bitterly.
“It is the will of God,” replied the negro, with an air of resignation.
“God!” ejaculated Sebastian, as he raised his eyes to the dome of the studio, through which the stars glittered—“God! I pray constantly to him, father, (and I hope he will one day listen to me,) that we may no longer be slaves. But go to bed, father; go, go; and I shall go to mine there in that corner, and I shall soon fall asleep. Good night, father, good night.”
“Are you really not afraid of the Zombi, Sebastian?”
“My father, that is a superstition of our country. Father Eugenio has assured me that God does not permit supernatural beings to appear on earth.”
“Why then, when the pupils asked you who sketched the figures they find here every morning, did you say it was the Zombi?”
“To amuse myself, father, and to make them laugh; that was all.”