While they were still speaking, a handsome repast was placed on the table, brought in by several black slaves.
“We will have your people in,” said the French gentleman. “You will not object to their sitting at table, for I cannot ask them to join the black slaves.”
“Certainly not,” said Mr Collinson; “though I do not believe they would object to that. Probably, indeed, they would be happier by themselves.”
However, the Frenchman insisted that they should come in. The boys’ eyes sparkled as they found themselves seated at the table, for it was seldom or never they had seen so fine a repast.
“Won’t I have a good tuck-out!” said Tommy Rebow, as he eyed the viands. “In case our nigger-guards should be inclined to starve us, we may as well take in enough to last for some days.”
All hands did ample justice, as may be supposed, to the repast, the black soldiers being fed, in the mean time, in another part of the house.
At length the sergeant of the party appeared at the door, and summoned his prisoners.
“I have not asked your name,” said Mr Collinson, turning to his host. “I should like to remember one of whom I shall always think with gratitude.”
“My name is Mouret, and my daughter’s name is Adèle; but don’t suppose that I shall lose sight of you. Every influence I possess with the authorities I will exert in your favour, though I fear that is not very great.”
The sergeant becoming impatient, the English party had to take a hurried farewell.