"Ah jes' wants to catch any ol' corpses trapesin' 'round mah kitchin, trackin' up mah clean flo', an Ah 'll suah settle day hash once fo' all!" trumpeted Mary Magdalen. Outside, Schmetz was jumping up and down, flapping his arms, and screaming in voluble French: "Name of a dog! Senseless Senegambians, remain! Iron-skulled offspring of the union of a black mule and a pickax, cease to fly!" "What is the matter? For heaven's sake? what is the matter?" I shouted. "We done dig up de corpses! We done fin' wha'h dat ol' witch 'oman bury de bodies!" howled a workman in reply. "Imbeciles, asses, beings without brains, listen to me!" shrieked Schmetz, this time in good English. "This corpse is not alive! Never yet was he alive! Return, sons of perdition, and assist me to raise him--may he fall upon your brain-pans of donkeys!" As if that had been all that was needed, the last wavering workman flung down his shovel and took to his heels, running like a rabbit and roaring as he ran. "Schmetz!" called a clear and peremptory voice. "Schmetz! what's the matter over there?" "Ah! It is Monsieur Jelnik!" bawled Schmetz. "_Nom de Dieu_, Monsieur Jelnik, come with a great quickness! I have dug from the earth the leetle boy of stone--you know him, _hein_? Those niggers, _sacrement_! they think they have uncovered the deceased corpse, the victim of Madame the late mistress, with which she made her spells of a sorceress." "What!" said the voice. "You've found the statue, Schmetz? Ask, my good fellow, if it is permitted that I come and view it." "Why, of course!" said I, quickly. "Thank you," said the voice. There had been a great space cleared in our garden, and on the edge of this, in removing a stubborn gum-tree, the negroes had uncovered what they supposed to be the body of one murdered. Upon our knees, with Schmetz helping us, we were trying to tear away the rotten coverings, and the dirt and mold. And there, beautiful despite the stains disfiguring him, lay the boy Love. The marble pedestal from which he had been removed lay near him. On the base, decipherable, was the sculptor's name, and on one side, in small letters, "_Brought from Italy, 1803, by R.H._" "Why, he is perfect!" cried Alicia, joyfully. "Oh, who could have been so stupid and so cruel as to hide away something so lovely? Poor dear little god, aren't you glad to get out of that grave and come back to the sun? Aren't you grateful, little god, that Sophy and I came to Hynds House?"