fire too soon. Can you stand something strong? Then come this way.”
He led me out into the garden, and to a tangled heap lying in the moonlight, on the edge of the long grass. The slave had fallen on top of his master; one leg lay swathed and twisted; one black hand had but partially relaxed upon the haft of a knife (the knife) that stood up hilt-deep in a blacker heart. And in the hand of Santos was still the revolver (my Deane and Adams) which had sent its last ball through the nigger’s body.
restrained me, and I retorted as before, in a tone I strove to make as friendly, that it was his admirable wine and nothing else.
“But you took hardly any.”
“I shouldn’t have touched a drop. I can’t stand it. Instead of soothing me it excites me to the verge of madness. I’m almost over the verge -