"
"Much you know about it! Hark,--they're at it again"; and again the
voices and break of oars came through the night:--
"O march, de angel march! O march, de angel march!
O my soul arise in heaven, Lord, for to yearde when Jordan roll!
Roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll."
"Well, I confess that's a little bit above my comprehension,--that is.
Spiritual or something else. Lazy vermin! they'll paddle round in them
boats, or lie about in the sun, and hoot all day and all night about
'de good Lord' and 'de day ob jubilee,'--and think God Almighty is going
to interfere in their special behalf, and do big things for them
generally."
"It's a fact; they do all seem to be waiting for something."
"Well, I reckon they needn't wait any longer. The day of miracles is
gone by, for such as them, anyway. They ain't worth the salt that feeds
them, so far as I can discover."
Through the wash of the waters they could hear from the voices, as they
sang, that their possessors were evidently drawing nearer.
"Sense or not," said the Captain, "I never listen to them without a
queer feeling. What they sing is generally ridiculous enough, but their
voices are the most pathetic things in the world."
Here the hymn stopped; a boat was pulled up, and presently they saw two
men coming from the sands and into the light of their fire,--ragged,
dirty; one shabby old garment--a pair of tow pantaloons--on each;
bareheaded, barefooted,--great, clumsy feet, stupid and heavy-looking
heads; slouching walk, stooping shoulders; something eager yet
deprecating in their black faces.
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