Not the least deeply interested in the events of the morning, was the old negro. During their meal, at the service of which he assisted, his eyes scarcely quitted her whom be appeared to regard with a mingled feeling of awe and adoration; nay, such was his abstraction that, in attempting to place a dish of game on the rude table at which the party sat, he lodged the whole of the contents in the lap of Middlemore, a gaucherie that drew from the latter an exclamation of horror, followed however the instant afterwards by Sambo’s apology.
“I beg a pardon Massa Middlemore,” he exclaimed, “I let him fall e gravey in e lap.”
“Then will you by some means contrive to lap it up,” returned the officer quaintly.
Sambo applied his napkin, and the dinner proceeded without other occurrence. Owing to an apprehension that the night air might tend to renew the inflammation of the wounded arm, the boat was early in readiness for the return of the party, whose day of pleasure had been in some manner tamed into a day of mourning, so that long before sun set, they had again reached their respective homes at Detroit.