“Aboan.—­The innocent!
   Oroonoko.—­These men are so, whom you would rise against. 
    If we are slaves, they did not make us slaves,
    But bought us in the honest way of trade,
    As we have done before ’em, bought and sold
    Many a wretch, and never thought it wrong. 
    They paid our price for us, and we are now
    Their property, a part of their estate,
    To manage as they please.”

At an early hour the party, consisting of Mr Kingston, the master of the brig, and Newton, set off upon mules for the habitation of the planter.  The sun had illumined the sky, but had not yet made his appearance, although the golden fringes upon the clouds, which floated in broad belts in the horizon, indicated his glorious yet withering approach.  The dew moistened each leaf, or hung in glittering pendant drops upon the thorn of the prickly pears which lined the roads.  The web of the silver-banded spider was extended between the bushes, and, saturated with moisture, reflected the beams of the rising orb, as the animals danced in the centre, to dazzle their expected prey.  The mist still hovered on the valleys, and concealed a part of the landscape from their view; and the occasional sound of the fall of water was mingled with the twittering and chirping of the birds, as they flew from spray to spray.  The air was fresh, even to keenness, and anyone suddenly wafted to the scene would little have imagined that he was under the torrid zone.

“How different this is from the ideas generally formed of the climate in the West Indies!” observed Newton.  “In England, we couple it with unsufferable heat and the yellow fever.”

“Your reports are from those who seldom leave the harbours or towns, where such indeed prevail,” replied Kingston.  “There is no island in the Caribbean Sea where the early riser may not enjoy this delightful, bracing atmosphere.  At Jamaica in particular, where they collect as much snow as they please in the mountains; yet, at the same time, there is not a more fatal and unhealthy spot than Port Royal harbour, in the same island.”

“Is the plantation we are going to situated as high above the level of the sea as we are now?”

“No; most plantations are in the ravines, between the hills.  The sugar-cane requires heat.  As soon as we are on the summit of this next hill we shall descend to it.”

In half an hour they arrived at the end of their journey, when they stopped at an extensive range of low buildings, situated at the head of the valley, which descended to the sea,—­now for the first time presented to their view since they had quitted Bridgetown.  The owner of the estate was at the door to receive them.  He was a tall, spare man, dressed in nankeen jacket and trousers, with a large-brimmed straw hat upon his head.

“Welcome, gentlemen, welcome.  Kingston, how are you?” said he, as they stopped.  “Now dismount, gentlemen; the boys will take the mules.  Boy Jack, where are you?  Where’s Baby, and where’s Bulky?  Come here, you lazy rascals, and take the mules.  Now then, gentlemen, I’ll show you the way.  I ordered breakfast on the table, as I saw you coming down the hill.”