The planter hesitated.  He was unwilling indeed to lose four of his best slaves, and he knew that whether he attacked them now, or whether he reported the case to the commandant of the island, he would assuredly do this.  After a moment’s hesitation, he said: 

“The fool has brought it on himself.  Do you,” turning to the guards, “lift him up and carry him to the house, and let old Dinah see to his head.  It is an ugly cut,” he said, leaning over him, “but will do him no harm, though it will not add to his beauty.”

The blow had indeed been a tremendous one, and had it alighted fairly on the top of his head, would assuredly Lave cleft the skull, in spite of the protection afforded by the hat.  It had, however, fallen somewhat on one side, and had shorn off the scalp, ear, and part of the cheek.  It was three weeks before the overseer again resumed his duty, and he cast such a deadly look at Harry as assured him that he would have his life when the occasion offered.

Two days later, when the planter happened to be in the field with the overseer, two gentlemen rode from the house, where they had been to inquire for him.  The sobriety of their garments showed that they belonged to the strictest sect of the Puritans.

“I have ridden hither,” one said, with a strong nasal twang, “Zachariah Stebbings, having letters of introduction to you from the governor.  These will tell that I am minded to purchase an estate in the island.  The governor tells me that maybe you would be disposed to sell, and that if not, I might see the methods of work and culture here, and learn from you the name of one disposed to part with his property.”

At the first words of the speaker Harry Furness had started, and dropped his hoe; without, however, looking round, he picked it up and applied himself to his work.

“I should not be unwilling to sell,” the planter answered, “for a fair price, but the profits are good, and are likely to be better, for I hear that large numbers of malignants, taken by the sword of the Lord Cromwell at Dundalk and Waterford in Ireland, will be sent here, and with more labor to till the fields, our profits will increase.”

“I have heard,” the newcomer said, “that some of the ungodly followers of the man Charles have already been sent here.”

“That is so,” the planter agreed.  “I myself, standing well in the favor of the governor, have received four of them; that boy, the two men next to him, and that big man working there.  He is a noted malignant, and was known as Colonel Purness.”

“Truly he is a stalwart knave,” the other remarked.

“Ay is he,” the planter said; “but his evil fortune has not as yet altogether driven out the evil spirit within him.  He is a man of wrath, and the other day he smote nigh to death my overseer, whose head is, as you see, still bandaged up.”

“Truly he is a son of Belial,” the other argued, but in a tone in which a close observer might have perceived a struggle to keep down laughter.  “I warrant me, you punished him heartily for such an outbreak.”