I love to see thee fear, though fearing nothing here, because I see nothing that you fear beyond the grave. You hate this boy?" "I hate him worse than wrinkles. Let him not come to me a child to-morrow; let him see ghosts long as he lives." "How are the prisoners, Patty?" "Why, the white nigger, dovey, is sick to-day; blood-loss and blisters have give him fever.
For a little while, at least, there could be rest and peace. But when darkness should have settled down "If they'd only show themselves!" thought he, his leaden eyes closing in an overmastering lassitude, a vast swooning weakness of blood-loss and exhaustion. Not even his parched thirst, a veritable torture now, could keep his thoughts from wandering.