“Salome,” Andria broke out angrily, “you don’t trust me! I tell you I love the child. I have nothing to do with Mr. Egerton’s plots against her. I’ve known her ever since she was a baby.” “Don’t never hear o’ no plots,” said Salome sharply. But at the look on Andria’s face she buried her own in her hands. “I will trust you, missus,” she whispered. “Fo’ de Lawd, ole Salome couldn’t tell ’bout you. I’m sick o’ dis life and dis yer place, dat’s true.” “Then tell me what it all means,” commanded Andria sternly. “Why are we besieged here every night by wild beasts and worse?” Salome caught her by the arm. “Listen!” she cried. “I can’t tell you nothin’. I took my Bible oath”--on Amelia Jane’s poor relic of religion!--“to hole my tongue. But I took another in my mind to take care of dat child.” “Then tell me who I saw last night!” said Andria frantically. “Whose hateful face jabbered at me this morning, down the path----” “You done see him! My soul!” said the woman, as if hell had opened under her feet. “Den we’s gone, sure enough. Dey’s more than jaguars.” Beryl, as if she listened to something very far off, had drawn to the other end of the room. She stood, a tense white figure, deaf to all other sounds but those. Andria pointed to her dumbly. “Don’t say anything,” she breathed. “She is afraid of people, never of animals. At the convent she once saved a sister from an ox that turned on her----” “Dey’s born so, I tell you,” Salome returned, with a kind of pride. “Salome, if you don’t speak out to me I’ll go mad,” Andria said desperately. “What can I do if I don’t know what it all means?” “I can’t tell you nothin’,” answered Salome slowly. “I couldn’t get clear if I did. And you knows all I knows now. I don’t know no more. Black people in the house, no one comes--white women! You seen to-night.” “Do you mean the place is safe for black people?” “De white blood draws ’em,” she answered in a whisper that thrilled. “But men; Mr. Egerton----” “When he comes back you see. He ain’t going to stay long. He sleep up, up in de roof, last time he come.” “And he brought two women here!” Every drop of Andria’s blood recoiled. “Dat’s what I can’t understand,” said Salome eagerly. “He say, ‘Salome, you take care on ’em!’ And I seem to feel he don’t mean it.” “He can’t,” said Andria simply. “Oh! Salome, can’t we get away? Isn’t there any one on all this island but us? Isn’t there a village--boats?” “If dey is dey’s behind miles o’ bush and scrub dat we can’t scrape through,” Salome returned, very low. “Boats, if you means getting away by de sea, dey ain’t none, ’less we make ’em. I never see no living soul since I been here--but what you see to-night!” “But why are you here?” “’Cause he brought me. He tell me he take me to good place in Bermuda, and I came here. Oh, missus! I’m not old--but I’m wore out with misery.” “But you’re not a slave! Why did you stay?”