"Dass his blood," he said, in the same gentle, quavering tone.

"Dass my bes' frien' whut lay on de groun' whuh yo staind, gelmun." There was a pause, and no one spoke.
"Dass whuh day laid 'im an' dass whuh he lie," the old negro continued.
"Dey shot 'im in de fiels.

Dey ain' shot 'im hear-yondeh dey drugged 'im, but dis whuh he lie." He bent over again, then knelt, groaningly, and placed his hand on the stain, one would have said, as a man might place his hand over a heart to see if it still beat.

He was motionless, with the air of hearkening.
"Marse, honey, is you gone ?" He raised his voice as if calling, "Is you gone, suh ?--Marse ?" He looked up at the circle about him, and, still kneeling, not taking his hand from the sand, seeming to wait for a sign, to listen for a voice, he said: "Whafo' you gelmun think de good Lawd summon Marse Hawkliss?
Kaze he de mos' fittes'?
You know dat man he ketch me in de cole night, wintuh 'to' lais', stealin' 'is wood.

You know whut he done t'de ole thief?
Tek an' bull' up big fiah een ole Zen' shainty; say, 'He'p yo'se'f an' welcome.