“Ah! bon Dieu, bon Dieu! Quit a-bi-i-i-i-tin’ me!  Oh!  Lawd ‘a’ mussy!  Ow-ow-ow! lemme go!  Dey go’n’ to kyetch an’ hang me!  Oh! an’ I hain’ done nutt’n’ ‘gainst nobody!  Ah! bon Dieu! ein pov’ vie negresse!  Oh!  Jemimy!  I cyan’ gid dis yeh t’ing loose—­oh! m-m-m-m!  An’ dey’ll tra to mek out’t I voudou’ Mich-Agricole!  An’ I did n’ had nutt’n’ do wid it!  Oh Lawd, oh Lawd, you’ll be mighty good ef you lemme loose!  I’m a po’ nigga!  Oh! dey had n’ ought to mek it so pow’ful!”

Hands, teeth, the free foot, the writhing body, every combination of available forces failed to spread the savage jaws, though she strove until hands and mouth were bleeding.

Suddenly she became silent; a thought of precaution came to her; she lifted from the earth a burden she had dropped there, struggled to a half-standing posture, and, with her foot still in the trap, was endeavoring to approach the end of the hedge near by, to thrust this burden under it, when she opened her throat in a speechless ecstasy of fright on feeling her arm grasped by her captor.

“O-o-o-h!  Lawd! o-o-oh!  Lawd!” she cried, in a frantic, husky whisper, going down upon her knees, “Oh, Miche! pou’ l’amou’ du bon Dieu!  Pou’ l’amou du bon Dieu ayez pitie d’ein pov’ negresse!  Pov’ negresse, Miche, w’at nevva done nutt’n’ to nobody on’y jis sell calas!  I iss comin’ ‘long an’ step inteh dis-yeh bah-trap by acci_dent_!  Ah! Miche, Miche, ple-e-ease be good! Ah! mon Dieu!—­an’ de Lawd’ll reward you—­’deed ’E will, Miche!”

“Qui ci ca?” asked the Capitain, sternly, stooping and grasping her burden, which she had been trying to conceal under herself.

“Oh, Miche, don’ trouble dat!  Please jes tek dis yeh trap offen me—­da’s all!  Oh, don’t, mawstah, ple-e-ease don’ spill all my wash’n’ t’ings!  ‘Tain’t nutt’n’ but my old dress roll’ up into a ball.  Oh, please—­now, you see? nutt’n’ but a po’ nigga’s dr—­oh! fo’ de love o’ God, Miche Jean-Baptiste, don’ open dat ah box!  Y’en a rien du tout la-dans, Miche Jean-Baptiste; du tout, du tout!  Oh, my God! Miche, on’y jis teck dis-yeh t’ing off’n my laig, ef yo’ please, it’s bit’n’ me lak a dawg!—­if you please, Miche!  Oh! you git kill’ if you open dat ah box, Mawse Jean-Baptiste! Mo’ parole d’honneur le plus sacre—­I’ll kiss de cross!  Oh, sweet Miche Jean, laisse moi aller!  Nutt’n’ but some dutty close la-dans.”  She repeated this again and again, even after Capitain Jean-Baptiste had disengaged a small black coffin from the old dress in which it was wrapped. “Rien du tout, Miche; nutt’n’ but some wash’n’ fo’ one o’ de boys.”

He removed the lid and saw within, resting on the cushioned bottom, the image, in myrtle-wax, moulded and painted with some rude skill, of a negro’s bloody arm cut off near the shoulder—­a bras coupe—­with a dirk grasped in its hand.