“Blow away, Jim,” laughed the Captain, “I like to hear you; and it’s good talk if you don’t mean it.”

“I’ll be blamed if I don’t.”

“Come, you’re talking now,—­you’re saying a lot more than you’ll live up to,—­you know that as well as I. People always do when they’re gassing.”

“Well, blow or no blow, it’s truth, whether I live up to it or not.”  And he, evidently with not all the steam worked off, began to gather sticks and build a fire to fry his bit of pork and warm the cold coffee.

Just then they heard the plash of oars keeping time to the cadence of a plantation hymn, which came floating solemn and clear through the night:—­

  “My brudder sittin’ on de tree ob life,
  An’ he yearde when Jordan roll. 
  Roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll Jordan, roll,
      Roll Jordan, roll!”

They both paused to listen as the refrain was again and again repeated.

“There’s nigger for you,” broke out Jim, “what’n thunder’d they mean by such gibberish as that?”

The Captain laughed.  “Come, Given, don’t quarrel with what’s above your comprehension.  Doubtless there’s a spiritual meaning hidden away somewhere, which your unsanctified ears can’t interpret.”

“Spiritual fiddlestick!”

“Worse and worse! what a heathen you’re demonstrating yourself!  Violins are no part of the heavenly chorus.”

“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.