Chapter Eleven
Dangers, Vicissitudes, Escapes, New Surroundings, Hopes, And Fears
It was probably an advantage to Hester Sommers that she had been subjected to so severe a test at that time, for, not many weeks afterwards, she experienced a shock which put her powers of self-restraint to a much severer trial.
It happened thus. Sally and she were on their way home from market one day; the former with a large basket of vegetables on her head, and the latter with a lighter basket of oranges on her arm, for the use of the master at home. They had come to one of the wider of the narrow streets of the town, where the small shops were numerous, and the throng of passers-by was considerable—as also was the noise, for Jews, Moors, Cabyles, and negroes were conversing and jostling each other in all directions.
Presently a band of slaves approached, and, as it passed, Hester nearly fainted, for among them she beheld her father, with irons on his legs, and a shovel and pick on his shoulder.
“Father!” she exclaimed, in a faint voice, and, stretching out her arms, made an effort to run towards him.
Quick as lightning Sally grasped the situation, and, rising to the occasion with that prompt energy which betokens true genius, she seized Hester by the nape of the neck, hurled her to the ground, and sent her oranges flying in all directions! At the same time she began to storm at her with a volubility of invective that astonished herself as well as the amused bystanders. As for poor Hugh Sommers, the noise had prevented him from hearing the word “father!” and all that met his eyes was one black girl roughly using another. Alas! the poor man had been by that time so much accustomed to witness acts of cruelty that the incident gave him little concern. He passed doggedly onward to his thankless, unremitting toil, which had been rendered all the more severe of late in consequence of his despairing violence having compelled his drivers to put the heavy irons on his limbs.
Meanwhile Sally, having made Hester pick up some of the oranges, seized her by an arm and hurried her away. Nor did she desist scolding until she had her fairly down in the back regions of their cellar-home.
“I will never forgive you!” exclaimed Hester, with flashing eyes, doubling up her small fists, and apparently wishing that at least for one quarter of an hour she might be transformed into a female Samson.
“Oh yes, you will,” returned the negress coolly; “you’ll forgib me when I tells you dat I hab sab’ your fadder’s life, an’ p’r’aps your own too!”
“How? What do you mean?” demanded Hester, relaxing her little fists slightly, though still coruscating in the region of the eyes.
“I means dat if you got hold ob yer fadder dat time, he bery likely grip you tight an’ refuse to part wid you at no price ebermore; so den, ob course, dey tear him away, an’ he kick up a shindy an’ try to kill somebody—p’r’aps do it! Oh, its’s allers de way. I’s oftin seen it wid the big strong men—an’ your fadder am big. Dat was him, wasn’t it, wid de broad shoulders an’ de nice face—a leetle wild-like, p’r’aps, but no wonder—an’ de grey beard?”
“Yes; that was him—my darling father!”
“Well, ob course dey take him away an’ bastinado him till he die, or strangle him, or frow him on de hooks; an’ dey take you right away back to Osman, or wuss. I doo’d it for de best, Geo’giana.”
“Oh! Sally, dear, dear Sally, forgive me! But it was such an awful disappointment to be hurried away so, just as I saw him. I—I—am very wicked, Sally, will you forgive me?” said poor little Hester, bursting suddenly into tears, throwing her arms round her friend’s neck and kissing her.
“Forgib you, Geo’giana! Das not difficult to do, but I’ll neber forgib you if you go slobberin’ like dat, an’ dirtyin’ my face wid your black cheeks. Dar now, I’s got to polish you up again!”
This “polishing up,” it may be remarked, was a duty which Sally was called on to perform rather frequently, in consequence of Hester’s inveterate tendency to think of her father and shed tears! But her sable friend, whose stolid exterior concealed a wealth of affection, rather enjoyed the process of “polishing up,” and while engaged in it broke out into quite eloquent dissertations as to the impropriety of washing one’s face with tears when there was plenty of soap and water: coupled with earnest exhortations to “keep up heart,” and recommendations not to “gib in,” “neber to say die,” and the like.
On this particular occasion the sympathetic Sally gave her friend inexpressible comfort by assuring her that, having at last seen her father and the gang to which he belonged, she could now easily follow them up and find out where they were set to work. “And so, Geo’giana,” said she, in conclusion, “somet’ing may come ob dis meetin’, p’r’aps more’n you t’ink.”
Something certainly did come of it, as we shall see presently; but just now we must turn to another danger which threatened our English slave, and in regard to which the previous testing of her powers of self-restraint was but a trifle.
One morning Hester was seated in the usual corner, busily engaged with her embroidery, and with her mind still more busily employed in devising all sorts of impossible schemes for the deliverance of her father—for Sally had discovered the exact spot on the fortifications where Hugh Sommers was at work, and only prevented Hester from rushing out at once to see him by resolutely refusing for a time to tell where that spot was.
Mrs Lilly and Hester were alone at the time we refer to, Sally having gone out to the market.
“Dearie, I ’spec’s Peter de Great dis arternoon,” said Mrs Lilly, raising herself from a culinary pot to which she had been devoting her attention. “Dis am about de time he or’nar’ly comes to see you and tell you how de land lies. Now dat he knows you’s seed your fadder, he’ll likely hab somet’ing ’tickler to say to you.”
“God grant that he may have something hopeful to suggest,” said Hester, without looking up from her work.
“You may be sure dat prayer is answered, dearie, for you trust de Lord, an’ no one does dat in vain.”
As the woman spoke, the familiar voice was heard outside, “Hi, Missis Lilly! how’s you all git along down dar?” At the same moment the opening to the street was darkened by Peter’s bulky form as he descended the narrow stair.
Shaking hands with Hester, who rose eagerly to greet him, the negro was about to begin an earnest talk with her as to how she should act in regard to her father if she should again meet him, when a voice was heard that sent a deadly chill alike to the hearts of Hester and the negro.
“Is the cellar far from this?” asked the voice, which was that of Osman.
“No; here it is! Guard your feet; the second step is broken, and the place is rather dark,” replied the owner of the house.
“Osman!” whispered Peter, glaring and clenching his fists in an agony of uncertainty how to act.
Mrs Lilly, however, black-woman-like, rose to the occasion.
“Go down dar, you black wretch!” she cried, thrusting Hester quickly down into the coffee-hole; “how you s’pose massa git his dollars if you not work? Go to work, or I’ll skin you!”
Truly those negroes, male and female, seemed to possess most effective capacity for, and original methods of, coming to the rescue of their friends in moments of danger!
As Mrs Lilly uttered the last words the two visitors stood in the cellar. At the same instant the thud of the great pestle began, and so intelligently did Hester perform her part that the familiar gasp of Sally—admirably imitated—came up with every blow.
“What, Peter the Great! You here!” cried Osman, in extreme surprise.
“Yes, massa, I’s here on a little bit ob business wid Missis Lilly. She’s a fri’nd ob my sister Dinah,” answered Peter humbly.
“Oh, indeed! With my father’s permission, I suppose?”
“Yes, Massa Osman. I neber dar to come in de town widout your fadder’s purmission.”
Osman turned and addressed a few words in an undertone to the master of the house, who thereupon turned to Mrs Lilly.
“You are a wise woman, Lilly,” he said, “so I have come to consult you. It seems that one of the slaves belonging to Ben-Ahmed of Mustapha has made her escape, and it is rumoured that she has taken refuge with some one in this very street, or in one not far from it. Now, as you are well acquainted with almost every one in the neighbourhood, I thought it best to come in the first place to you to ask your advice about the matter.”
The gasp that came from the coffee-hole when this speech was made had something very real in it, and immediately afterwards the pounding was redoubled.
“Was the slabe white or black?” asked Mrs Lilly, with childlike simplicity, and more for the purpose of gaining time to think than anything else.
“She was white,” interposed Osman, “and very beautiful,—in fact, one of the ladies of the harem.”
On hearing this Mrs Lilly looked inquiringly upwards, as if she expected inspiration to flow from the bricks that formed the vaulted ceiling. Then she looked suddenly at Peter the Great, and said—
“Das mus’ be de lady you was tole me about, Peter,—Ister—Hister—w’at you call ’er?”
“Yes—Hester! Das so. De same as I tole you all about her ’scape,” answered Peter, quaking with anxiety and astonishment at the woman’s calm boldness, yet ready to fall in with any plan that her words might suggest. At the same time the gasping in the hole became more and more genuine, and the pounding more and more emphatic.
“No, massa, I don’ know of no white slabe as hab took refuge wid any ob our neighbours. Indeed I’s kite sure dat none ob de neighbours knows not’ing at all about dis Is—Es—w’at you call her? Ester! Das so, Peter?”
“Yes, das so, Missis Lilly.”
“Stop that horrible noise in the hole there! What is it?” said Osman impatiently.
“It is only one of my negro slaves,” said the master of the house. “Call her up, Lilly, and set her to something quieter until we go.”
Rendered desperate now, Peter the Great started forward with glaring eyes. “Massa,” he said, “an idea hab just struck me. Will you come out a momint? I wants to tell you somet’ing bery hard.”
The appearance, not less than the earnestness, of the negro, inclined Osman to comply with his request; but, hesitating, he said—
“Why not tell me here, Peter? We are all friends, you know.”
“Oh yes, I know dat, Massa Osman; but womans can never be trusted wid t’ings ob importance, ’specially black womans! But ob course if you not ’fraid ob Missis Lilly, I a’n’t ’fraid ob her lettin’ de secret out. I darsay she’s as good a creetur as de best ob ’um.”
This readiness to give in was a politic stroke. Osman agreed to go outside with the negro, and while the latter was ascending the short stair to the street, he was making superhuman efforts to invent something, for, as yet, he had not the faintest idea what his intended communication should be. But Peter the Great was a genius, and it is one of the characteristics of genius to be bold even to recklessness.
Trusting to some sort of inspiration, he began, with looks and tones of the deepest solemnity, “I s’pose you guess, Massa Osman, dat I’ve been inwestigatin’ that coorious business ob de English gal what runned away?”
“No, I did not guess that,” answered the Moor shortly.
“Oh! but it’s true!” said Peter. “Eber since she flooed away I’s bin goin’ about dem suspekid places, lookin’ arter her, and, do you know, Massa Osman, dat at last,” (here he dropped his voice and looked unutterable things),—“at last I’s found—”
“Well—found what?” asked the Moor eagerly.
“Found her fadder!”
“Bah! What do I care for her father, you fool?”
“Das troo, massa; but don’t you t’ink dat p’r’aps she’d be likely to try for find her fadder; an’ if she find ’im she’d be likely to remain wid her fadder? An’ so all dat we’d hab to do would be to find her fadder too. Ob course I don’t say she’s doo’d all dat; but suppose, for de sake ob argiment, dat she hab doo’d it all, won’t we—won’t we—we— No, I’s lost de t’read ob my discoorse. I’ll begin again fro’ de beginning. Das de on’y way I kin—”
“Is that all you had to tell me?” interrupted the Moor, in rising wrath.
“No—not kite all,” returned Peter humbly. “Dey do say dat de fadder is at work on de for’fications on de sout’ side ob de Kasba.”
“Well, you are a greater fool than I took you for,” said Osman, in whom contempt was quickly taking the place of anger.
“I s’pose I is, massa. An’ I s’pose it am part ob my foolishness to be lookin’ arter dis yar gal—but den, you see, I lubs Ben-Ahmed, so—”
“Well, well, Peter, I believe you mean well—”
“I’s sure I does, Massa Osman!”
“Don’t interrupt me, you black villain! Can’t you see that if Hester’s father is a Bagnio slave there is no chance of her having found refuge with him?”
“Das true, massa. I do s’pose you’s right. I’s a born ijit altogidder. But, you know, when a man gits off de scent ob a t’ing, anyt’ing dat looks de least bit like a clue should be follered up. An’ dere’s no sayin’ what might come ob seein’ de fadder—for we’s off de scent entirely jist now.”
“There’s little doubt of that, Peter,” said Osman, pausing, and looking meditatively at the ground.
“Moreober,” suggested the negro, “when a man wid a cleber head an’ a purswavis tongue like you tackles a t’ing, it’s bery strange indeed if not’ing comes ob it.”
“Well, you may be right after all,” returned the Moor slowly. “I will go and see this father. At all events it can do no harm.”
“None whateber, massa. An’ I better run back and send Ali arter you.”
“Why? What has he to do with it?”
“Oh! I only t’ought dat you was huntin’ togidder. It’s ob no consikence. But I t’ink he knows de janissary officer what has charge ob de gang, an’ if you don’t know him Ali might be useful.”
“There is wisdom in what you say.”
“Eben zough I is a ‘fool?’” asked the negro simply.
Osman laughed.
“At all events you are an honest fool, Peter, and I’m sorry I burned your back the other day. You didn’t deserve it.”
“Oh, nebber mind dat,” returned Peter, feeling really uneasy. “De back’s all right now. Moreober I did deserb it, for I’s an awrful sinner! Wuss dan you t’ink! Now, if you keep right up as you go, an’ when you comes to de Kasba turn to de right an’ keep so till you comes to de right angle ob de sout’ wall. De fadder he work dar. I’ll send Ali arter you, quick’s I can.”
They parted, and while the Moor stalked sedately up the street, the negro hurried back to the cellar with a message to Ali to follow Osman without a moment’s delay.
Meanwhile Ali had been cleverly engaged by the ready-witted Mrs Lilly, who, after fiercely ordering the coffee-pounder to “stop her noise,” come out of the hole, and retire to the kitchen, drew forth a large leathern purse, which she wisely chinked, and, going towards the stairs, invited her master to “come to de light an’ receibe de money which she hab made by de last sale ob slippers.”
Of course the bait took—none other could have been half so successful. But Hester apparently had not courage to take advantage of the opportunity, for she did not quit the hole. Fortunately Peter arrived before the cash transaction was completed. On receiving Osman’s message Ali balanced accounts promptly by thrusting the purse and its contents into his pocket and hastening away.
Then Peter the Great and Lilly sat down, took a long grave look at each other, threw back their heads, opened their cavernous mouths, and indulged in a quiet but hearty laugh.
“Now you kin come out, dearie,” said Lilly, turning to the coffee-hole on recovering composure.
But no response came from the “vasty deep.”
“De coast’s cl’ar, my dear,” said Peter, rising.
Still no response, so Peter descended the few steps, and found Hester lying insensible on a heap of coffee-beans, and still firmly grasping the big pestle. The trial had been too much for the poor child, who had fainted, and Peter emerged with her in his arms, and an expression of solemn anxiety on his countenance.
In a few minutes, however, she revived, and then Peter, hurrying her away from a locality which he felt was no longer safe, placed her under the charge of his sister Dinah—to the inexpressible regret of Mrs Lilly and her black maid-of-all-work.
In her new home the fugitive’s circumstances were much improved. Dinah and her husband had great influence over their owner, Youssef, the proprietor of the small coffee-house already described. They not only managed most of its details for him, but were permitted a good deal of personal liberty. Among other things they had been allowed to select the top of the house as their abode.
To European ears this may sound rather strange, but those who have seen the flat roofs of Eastern lands will understand it. Youssef’s house, like nearly all the other houses of the city, had a flat roof, with a surrounding parapet nearly breast-high. Here had been placed a few wooden boxes filled with earth and planted with flowering shrubs. These formed quite a little garden, to which Youssef had been wont to retreat of an evening for meditative and, we may add, smokative purposes. But as Youssef had grown old, his eyes had nearly, and his legs had quite, failed him. Hence, being unable to climb to his roof, he had latterly given it up entirely to the use of his black slaves, Samson and Dinah White.
There was a small excrescence or hut on the roof—about ten feet by six in dimensions—which formed—their residence. Behind this, hiding itself as it were and almost invisible, nestled a smaller excrescence or offshoot. It was a mere bandbox of a thing, measuring five feet by four; it had a window about twelve inches square, and was entered by a door inside the larger hut. This was the apartment now assigned to Hester, who was quietly introduced into the household without the knowledge or consent of its blind proprietor.
There was a little bed in the small room. True, it was only a trestle frame, and a straw-stuffed mattress with a couple of blankets, but it was clean, and the whole room was neat, and the sun shone brightly in at the small window at the moment that the new occupant was introduced. Poor Hester fell on her knees, laid her head on the bed, and thanked God fervently for the blessed change. Almost in the same moment she forgot herself, and prayed still more fervently for the deliverance of her father.
The view over the housetops from the little window was absolutely magnificent, including as it did domes, minarets, mosques, palm-trees, shipping, and sea! Here, for a considerable time, Hester worked at her former occupation, for Dinah had a private plan to make a little money for her own pocket by means of embroidery.
In this pleasant retreat our fugitive was visited one day by Peter the Great, the expression of whose visage betokened business. After some conversation, he said that he had come for the express purpose of taking Hester to see her father.
“But not to talk to him,” he added quickly—“not eben to make you’self known to him, for if you did, not’ing would keep ’im quiet, an’ you an’ he would be parted for eber. Mind dat—for eber!”
“Yes, yes, I will remember,” said the poor girl, who was profoundly agitated at the mere thought of such a meeting.
“But you mus’ promise,” said Peter solemnly.
“Promise on you’ word ob honour dat you not say one word; not make a sound; not gib an unor’nary look; not try in any way to attrack his attention. Come—speak, else I go home ag’in.”
“I promise,” said Hester, in a low voice.
“An’ you won’t cry?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“Come ’long, den, wid me, an’ see you’ poor fadder.”
Chapter Twelve
The Middy, becoming Defiant and Violent, comes to Grief, and Hester’s Black Friends devise Strange Things
On the afternoon of the day in which Peter the Great paid his visit to Hester Sommers in the little boudoir, Ben-Ahmed sent for George Foster and bade him make a portrait of a favourite dog.
It so happened that our artist had run short of some of his drawing materials, and said that he could not get on well without them.
“Go to the town, then, got a supply, and return quickly,” said Ben-Ahmed, who was smoking his hookah in the court at the time and playing gently with the lost Hester’s pet gazelle.
The graceful little creature had drooped since the departure of his mistress, as if he felt her loss keenly. Perhaps it was sympathy that drew it and Ben-Ahmed more together than in times past. Certainly there seemed to be a bond of some sort between them at that time which had not existed before, and the Moor was decidedly more silent and sad since Hester’s flight. In his efforts to recover the runaway he had at first taken much trouble, but as time passed he left it in the hands of Osman, who seemed even more anxious than his father to recover the lost slave.
As the midshipman was leaving the court the Moor called him back, addressing him as usual in Lingua Franca, while the youth, taking his cue from Peter the Great, answered in English.
“You know something about this English girl?” he suddenly said, with a steady look at his slave.
“I—I—yes, I do know something about her,” replied Foster, in some confusion.
“Do you know where she hides?”
“N–no; I do not.”
“I have been led to understand that British officers never tell lies,” returned the Moor sternly.
The blood rushed to the middy’s face as he replied boldly, “You have been correctly informed—at least, in regard to those officers who are true gentlemen.”
“Why, then, do you hesitate?” retorted the Moor. “Do Englishmen blush and stammer when they tell the truth? Tell me the truth now. Do you know where the English girl hides?”
The Moor spoke very sternly, but his slave, instead of becoming more confused, suddenly drew himself up, and replied in a voice and with a look as stern as his own—
“Ben-Ahmed, I told you the truth at first. I do not know where she is hiding. I did, indeed, know some time ago, but the place of her abode has been changed, and I do not know now. I may as well however say at once that, if I did know, nothing that you can do would induce me to tell you where she hides. You may imprison, torture, or slay me if you choose, but in regard to Hester Sommers I am from this moment dumb!”
There was a curious smile on the Moor’s lips while the midshipman delivered this speech with flashing eyes and energetic action, but there was no anger in his tone as he replied—
“Englishman,” he said quietly, “you love this girl.” If a bombshell had exploded under his feet our middy could hardly have been taken more by surprise. But he had been put on his mettle now, and scorned to show again a wavering front.
“Yes, Moor,” he replied, “I do love her, though I have never told her so, nor have I the slightest reason to believe that she cares a fig for me. But I now tell you plainly that I will take advantage of every opportunity that comes in my way to serve her and help her to escape. I now also recall the promise—the word of honour—I gave you, not to try to escape. There was a time,” continued the middy, in a softened tone, “when I thought of recalling this promise with defiance to you to do your worst; but, Ben-Ahmed, I have lived to learn that, after a fashion, you have been kind to me; that I might have fallen into worse hands; therefore I am not ungrateful, and I now recall the promise only with regret. All the same, my resolve is fixed.”
The curious smile still lingered on the Moor’s lips as he said, almost in a jesting tone—
“But you will not try to escape to-day if I let you go into the town for colours?”
“I make no promise, Ben-Ahmed. Yet this I may safely say, that I will not try to clear off on my own account. Unless to save Hester I will not at present try to escape; so far you may be sure of my return; but if I get the chance I will either rescue her or die for her—God helping me.”
The smile vanished from the Moor’s lips as he turned, and said gravely—
“It is well, young man, that you confess to the true and only source of all help. You Christians, as you call yourselves, have ever seemed to me unwilling to mention the name of God save when cursing your fellows, and then you misuse it glibly enough. Yet there are some among you who are more consistent in their professions. Go, fulfil your commission. I will trust you.”
“Thank you, Ben-Ahmed,” returned the middy; “but remember, if I never return, you will understand that I have not broken my word of honour.”
The Moor bowed his head in acquiescence, and took a long pull at his pipe as the midshipman went away.
George Foster was half-way to the town before he recovered from his astonishment at the strange and unexpected way in which Ben-Ahmed had received his very plain speaking. He had expected that chains and the bastinado, if not worse, would certainly follow, but he had made up his mind to go through with it—if need be to die—for Hester’s sake. To find himself, therefore, free to go where he pleased, and to help Hester to escape if the opportunity to do so should come in his way, was an amazing state of things which he could scarcely bring himself to believe.
Of course, our hero had not the slightest expectation of encountering Hester that day, when he thus freed himself from his parole, and we need scarcely add that, even if he had met her, he could not have devised any sudden scheme for her deliverance. Nevertheless, the mere fact that he was at liberty to act as he pleased in her behalf had such an effect on him that he entered the town with a lighter heart than he had possessed for many a day. Humming a nautical air as he walked along, and almost if not quite, for the moment, oblivious of the fact of his condition of slavery, he became keenly interested in all that he saw as he passed through the crowded streets, now stopping to admire a picturesque group of figures with jars and pitchers, awaiting their turn to draw water from a public fountain, or pausing in front of a turner’s shop to observe with curiosity and interest the deft way in which the workman used his toes as well as his fingers in the operations of his trade.
He was thus engaged, in calm contemplation with his back to the street, when he was very slightly jostled by a passer-by. He scarcely noticed the incident, but if he had known who it was that touched him he would not have remained so placid, for it was Hester herself, in company with Peter the Great, on their way to the city walls.
As Hester’s eyes were fixed on the ground and her thoughts on her father, while Foster’s attention was concentrated on the turner’s toes, neither observed the other, but Peter’s sharp eyes had noted the middy, and he hurried past to prevent a recognition, which might be awkward, if not dangerous, at the moment.
Presently Foster’s attention was attracted by a Moor who was riding along the street, sitting side-wise as was the wont of Algerines of the trading-class. What struck Foster particularly about this man and his donkey was that the latter was trotting very fast, although it was a very small animal, and the man on its back a very large one. He also observed that the donkey tossed its head and put back its ears as if it were suffering pain. As the Moor’s hand rested on the donkey’s haunch, the reason at once occurred to Foster, for he had noticed the same thing before. It was the practice, among cruel men, to create, and keep open, a small sore on the haunch of each animal, by irritating which with a little bit of stick they managed to make their donkeys go in a way that a spur or a thick stick could not accomplish!
Now, our middy possessed a tender heart, which shrank sensitively from the idea of giving pain to any living creature, and which almost exploded with indignation at the sight of wanton cruelty to dumb animals.
When, therefore, the Moor came alongside of him, Foster gave him a look of tremendous indignation, at the same time exclaiming, “Shame on you!”
The Moor turned on him a look of mingled surprise and scorn. At the same time muttering, “Christian dog!” he brought a stick smartly down on the middy’s shoulders.
This was too much to bear meekly. The boiling blood in the youth’s heart boiled over into his face. He leaped forward, seized the donkey’s rein with one hand, caught the man’s left leg with the other, and hurled the rider backward to the ground.
The bump with which the Moor’s head came down had the effect of keeping it low, but the spectators of the incident, who were numerous, rushed upon the poor middy, seized him, and carried him straight to a court of justice.
They had a summary method of transacting business in those courts, especially in simple cases like that of which we treat. The investigation was rapid; the evidence of the witnesses emphatic. Almost before he had recovered breath our hero was thrown down, his feet were raised by two strong attendants, his shoes plucked off, and the soles of his feet made to tingle as if they had been set on fire.
After a few strokes, which he bore in silence, he was led to the common prison, thrust into it, and left to his meditations.
Meanwhile, Peter the Great conducted Hester to that part of the city wall where her father was at work among the other slaves. It chanced to be the hour when the wretched creatures were allowed to cease work for a brief space in order to rest and eat.
Poor Hugh Sommers chanced to have seated himself a little apart from the others, so as to get the benefit of a large stone for a seat. His figure was, therefore, prominent, as he sat there worn, weary, and dejected, consuming his allowance of black bread. Peter the Great knew him at once, having already, as the reader knows, seen him in his slave garb; but Hester’s anxious eyes failed for a few moments to pick out the emaciated frame and strangely clad, ragged figure which represented her once jovial, stalwart, and well-clothed father.
“Das him,” whispered Peter, as he loosely grasped the girl’s arm by way of precaution.
“Where—oh, where?” asked the poor creature, glancing round among the slaves.
“Now, ’member your promise. Spoil eberyt’ing if you screech or run to him. Look, dis way! De man what’s settin’ on de stone!”