After giving vent to this prayer, which was the expression of the feelings that boiled in his heart, the Negro fell on the ground, and for some minutes remained plunged in earnest thought. The hunter respected his silence. At length the Negro raised his head again. "Listen, hunter," he said. "I have returned thanks to God for my deliverance, as was my duty; for it was He who inspired you with the thought of defending me. Now that I am beginning to grow a little calmer, and feel accustomed to my new condition, be good enough to tell me what passed between you and my master, that I may know the extent of the debt I owe you, and that I may regulate my future conduct by it. Speak, I am listening." "What need to tell you a story which can interest you so slightly? You are free, that ought to be sufficient for you." "No, that is not sufficient; I am free, that is true, but how have I become so? That is what I do not know, and I have the right to ask of you." "The story, I say again, has nothing that can interest you at all; still, as it may cause you to form a better opinion of the man to whom you belonged, I will not longer refuse to tell it to you; so listen." Tranquil, after this opening, told in all their details the events that happened between himself and the slave dealer, and when he had finished, added-- "Well, are you satisfied now?" "Yes," the Negro replied, who had listened to him with the most sustained attention. "I know that, next to God, I owe everything to you, and I will remember it; never will you have to remind me of the debt, under whatever circumstances we may meet." "You owe me nothing, now that you are free; it is your duty to employ that liberty in the way a man of upright and honest heart should do." "I will try not to prove myself unworthy of what God and you have done for me; I also thank John Davis sincerely for the good feeling that urged him to listen to your remonstrances; perhaps I may be able to requite him some day; and, if the opportunity offers, I shall not neglect it." "Good! I like to hear you speak so, for it proves to me that I was not mistaken about you; and now what do you intend to do?" "What advice do you give me?" "The question you ask me is a serious one, and I hardly know how to answer it; the choice of a profession is always a difficult affair, and must be reflected upon ripely before a decision is formed; in spite of my desire to be of service to you, I should not like to give you advice, which you would doubtless follow for my sake, and which might presently cause you regret. Besides, I am a man whose life since the age of seven has always been spent in the woods, and I am, consequently, far too unacquainted with what is called the world to venture to lead you on a path which I do not know myself." "That reasoning seems to me perfectly correct. Still, I cannot remain here, and must make up my mind to something or other." "Do one thing." "What is it?"