"O Lordy!" exclaimed old Peter as he jumped back in sudden fright.
"Who's dat? What you want? W'at's de matter? I don't like spirits.
You can't trick me. I'm the carrier ob de Courier dese five an'
twenty year. What you want?"

"O Lord! help me! Come to me, Peter. I know you. I can do no harm.
Come, I implore! Come quickly! Reassured by the faint, but
importunate words, old Peter approached the dark object that lay
upon the ground, scarcely discernible in the dim twilight of
approaching day.

"Bend down close to me, Peter. I am dying. I am cold and faint, and
wish to say a few words to you."

"Good God!" and the old negro shuddered as he bent down over the
prostrate form before him.

"Don't you know me, Peter?"

Peter bent closer down.

"Mass' Mark Abrams, is dis you? What's de matter wid you? Who did
it? Who killed you? Tell me; tell me for God's sake."

"Listen to me, Peter; listen. I am dying-shot in the breast with a
pistol."

"Who did it? Who did it? For Heaven's sake, who did it?"

"No one, Peter; be calm; listen to me. It was accidental. I had in