“Slave-hunters,” he answered, grinding his teeth and uttering a fearful oath.
“But how do you know that we are not searching for a runaway slave?” I asked.
“Because you are an Englishman,” he replied.
“Why do you fancy that?” said I.
“From the way you spoke to your boy and dog,” he observed with a fierce laugh. “There would have been a kick and a curse had you belonged to this country; but, though you gripped me hard, and well-nigh squeezed the breath out of me, I know you to be a man, and I trust you.”
“I am obliged to you for your confidence, and I will not betray it; though, as it may be better, I will ask no questions.”
“That’s wise; but I must ask you one,” said the negro. “How came you here?”
I told him. He was silent for some time, turning his fish on the spit, while my companions, imitating my example, seated themselves beside me. Peter sat gaping with mute astonishment, Ready’s lips and eye showed that he still looked on the big negro rather as an enemy than a friend. The excitement had hitherto prevented me from feeling the wound in my neck. The pain and a sensation of blood flowing down my shoulder reminded me of it, and I was about to call Peter to my aid, when the negro looked up and said—
“Stranger, you believe that all men have sprung from the same parents?”
“Certainly, my friend,” I replied. “I have not the slightest doubt about the matter.”