"That is, indeed, extraordinary," I answered; "for so universal is that difficulty of utterance which you mention in the African race, whatever language they are speaking, that I imagined it to proceed from a natural defect. I have heard they talk both French and Spanish in the same peculiar manner that they talk English."
"Hear this man talk in a dark room, and you would not know him from an American," said Bessy.
But I had soon an opportunity of judging for myself, for, shortly after, we came in sight of two or three cabins, with a larger house peeping over the trees at some little distance. Approaching the hut, farthest from us, I knocked at the door, on my fair companion's suggestion. We had heard voices speaking within, and, on entering, we found the cabin tenanted by two negroes, who were seated at a small table, with a bowl of milk, and some bread made of Indian corn between them. The first was my friend, Nat Turner, and a powerful, though spare man he was. The other was fully as dark in complexion, and had probably once been as strong in form; but he was now an old man, with the wool upon his head as white as snow, and a good many wrinkles in his dingy skin. He was well dressed in black, with very white linen, and a white neck-cloth tied in what I may call clerical style. I should have judged him to have been a man of about seventy, and stout and hale for his age; but, nevertheless, this was Bessy Davenport's negro, Jack, and, I must say, there was something very reverent and prepossessing in his appearance as he rose and made us a respectful, but not servile, bow.
"Well, Mr. Turner," I said, "I promised to pay you a visit, and Miss Davenport has been kind enough to guide me; otherwise, as a stranger in the land, I might have missed my way."
"You are very welcome, sir," answered Nat. "Pray, Miss Bessy, take dis stool. Here is good uncle Jack, whom you know."
Bessy held out her hand to uncle Jack, who shook it kindly; but he did not miss an opportunity of reproof, and looking sadly at Nat Turner, he shook his head, saying,
"Whom callest thou good? There is none good but one--that is God."
"Well, I meant good as this world goes," answered Nat Turner.
"There is so little difference between any two of us," replied the old man, "that no one has a right to claim or receive the title of good; far less to arrogate superiority over other brethren."