masser. I try do my best. Only hope you not a gwine where
we come cross Masser Clancy. If he see me, he sure have me back, and
then I'se get the cowhide right smart. He flog me dreadful."

"You're in no danger. I'll take care he never sets eye on you again.

"Here, Nandy!" he says to the mestizo, summoned back. "You can remove
them ropes from your prisoner. Give him somethin' to eat and drink.
Treat him as ye would one o' ourselves. He's to be that from this time
forrard. Spread a buffler skin, an' get him a bit o' blanket for his
bed. Same time, for safety's sake, keep an eye on him."

The caution is spoken _sotto voce_, so that the prisoner may not hear
it. After which, Borlasse leaves the two together, congratulating
himself on the good speculation he will make, not by keeping Jupe to
groom his horse, but selling him as a slave to the first man met willing
to purchase him.

In the fine able-bodied mulatto, he sees a thousand dollars cash--soon
as he can come across a cotton-planter.

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

MESTIZO AND MULATTO.

While their chief has been interrogating his prisoner, the robbers
around the fire have gone on with their poker-playing, and whisky
drinking.

Borlasse joining in the debauch, orders brandy to be brought out of his
tent, and distributed freely around. He drinks deeply himself; in part
to celebrate the occasion of such a grand stroke of business done, but
as much to drown his disappointment at the captives not yet having come
in.--The alcohol has its effect; and ere long rekindles a hope, which
Chisholm strengthens, saying, all will yet be well, and the missing ones
turn up, if not that night, on the morrow.

Somewhat relieved by this expectation, Borlasse enters into the spirit
of the hour, and becomes jovial and boisterous as any of his
subordinates. The cards are tossed aside, the play abandoned; instead,
coarse stories are told, and songs sung, fit only for the ears of such a
God-forsaken crew.

The saturnalia is brought to a close, when all become so intoxicated
they can neither tell story nor sing song. Then some stagger to their
tents, others dropping over where they sit, and falling fast asleep.

By midnight there is not a man of them awake, and the camp is silent,
save here and there a drunken snore disturbing its stillness.

The great central fire, around which some remain lying astretch, burns
on, but no longer blazes. There is no one to tend it with