"But an't I to be murdered, Dancy?" demanded the wench, dolefully: "Oh! that ever I should be among the bloody Hawks! They say, they scalp women and children, as if they were no more than great Indians!" "They're not half such fellers as people say," replied Dancy: "the only murdering I ever knowed of among them, was that of Andy Parker; and that I uphold to be salt for gruel,--fair grist for cheating the miller. He chalked me down like a fool, me and Tom Staples, being all old friends, or sort of; and so hanging was good for him. But I tell you what, Phoebe--give us a buss, and _we_'ll be married, as well as our betters." "I won't do no such thing," said the damsel, stoutly. "I don't like you no better than I ever did; for I don't see you're any better-to-do in the world than you was; and, besides, I won't have no tory." "I reckon," said Dancy Parkins, "I'm no more a tory than the lieutenant--that's him you used to suppose was Mr. Hunter, and a poor painter; and there's your betters, the Captain's daughter, jumps at him." "She don't!" said Phoebe, with indignation; "and don't you go to say, Miss Kitty Loring will have any such vagabondy, poor fellow." "Poor!" cried Dancy; "why he's as rich as a king, and a mighty fine gentleman, too, for all he's consorting just now with these here refugees. He's got a grand plantation, as big as all Hawk-Hollow, with a thousand niggurs, where he raises sugar by the ship-load, and molasses beyond all reckoning, and, as I hear, good Jamaiky spirits. He's to make me a sort of I-dunna-what-you-call-it; but I'm to manage the niggurs, and make a fortun'. They say, no man ever sets foot on a sugar plantation, without making a fortun' out of it,--that is, excepting the niggurs. So, Phoebe Jones, there's no great use in despising me. It's a fine country, that island of Jamaiky; and consarn the bit of a hard winter they ever hear of there. So now, Phoebe, don't be a fool and refuse me no more; for I'm mighty well-to-do in the world." And thus the enamoured Dancy pursued his claims to the love of his prisoner, who had been hard-hearted enough to frown upon him of old, while a labourer on Captain Loring's estate, and before the Captain's daughter had, by rewards and promises of further favour, prevailed upon him to take charge of the meaner fields of the widow. There was some presumption, at least Phoebe thought so, in his daring to raise eyes to _her_; for besides being without any personal attractions whatever, he was, to all intents, a gawky and stupid clod-hopper, with but little prospect of ever rising beyond the condition of a mere hireling, or, at best, a peasant of the lowest class; and accordingly, the damsel repelled him with extreme scorn, as a person unworthy to brush the dust from her shoes.