Then he painfully resumed his former position. "Dass his blood,"
he said, in the same gentle, quavering tone. "Dass my bes' frien' whut lay
on de groun' whuh yo staind, gelmun."
There was a pause, and no one spoke.
"Dass whuh day laid 'im an' dass whuh he lie," the old negro continued.
"Dey shot 'im in de fiels. Dey ain' shot 'im hear-yondeh dey drugged 'im,
but dis whuh he lie." He bent over again, then knelt, groaningly, and
placed his hand on the stain, one would have said, as a man might place
his hand over a heart to see if it still beat. He was motionless, with the
air of hearkening.
"Marse, honey, is you gone?" He raised his voice as if calling, "Is you
gone, suh?--Marse?"
He looked up at the circle about him, and, still kneeling, not taking his
hand from the sand, seeming to wait for a sign, to listen for a voice, he
said: "Whafo' you gelmun think de good Lawd summon Marse Hawkliss? Kaze he
de mos' fittes'? You know dat man he ketch me in de cole night, wintuh
'to' lais', stealin' 'is wood. You know whut he done t'de ole thief? Tek
an' bull' up big fiah een ole Zen' shainty; say, 'He'p yo'se'f an'
welcome. Reckon you hongry, too, ain' you, Xenophon?' Tek an' feed me. Tek
an' tek keer o' me ev' since. Ah pump de baith full in de mawin'; mek 'is
bed; pull de weeds out'n of de front walk--dass all.
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