“The antennae!” said Legrand, who seemed to be getting unaccountably warm upon the subject; “I am sure you must see the antennae.  I made them as distinct as they are in the original insect, and I presume that is sufficient.”

“Well, well,” I said, “perhaps you have—­still I don’t see them;” and I handed him the paper without additional remark, not wishing to ruffle his temper; but I was much surprised at the turn affairs had taken; his ill humor puzzled me—­and, as for the drawing of the beetle, there were positively no antennae visible, and the whole did bear a very close resemblance to the ordinary cuts of a death’s-head.

He received the paper very peevishly, and was about to crumple it, apparently to throw it in the fire, when a casual glance at the design seemed suddenly to rivet his attention.  In an instant his face grew violently red—­in another as excessively pale.  For some minutes he continued to scrutinize the drawing minutely where he sat.  At length he arose, took a candle from the table, and proceeded to seat himself upon a sea-chest in the farthest corner of the room.  Here again he made an anxious examination of the paper; turning it in all directions.  He said nothing, however, and his conduct greatly astonished me; yet I thought it prudent not to exacerbate the growing moodiness of his temper by any comment.  Presently he took from his coat pocket a wallet, placed the paper carefully in it, and deposited both in a writing-desk, which he locked.  He now grew more composed in his demeanor; but his original air of enthusiasm had quite disappeared.  Yet he seemed not so much sulky as abstracted.  As the evening wore away he became more and more absorbed in revery, from which no sallies of mine could arouse him.  It had been my intention to pass the night at the hut, as I had frequently done before, but, seeing my host in this mood, I deemed it proper to take leave.  He did not press me to remain, but, as I departed, he shook my hand with even more than his usual cordiality.

It was about a month after this (and during the interval I had seen nothing of Legrand) when I received a visit, at Charleston, from his man, Jupiter.  I had never seen the good old negro look so dispirited, and I feared that some serious disaster had befallen my friend.

“Well, Jup,” said I, “what is the matter now?—­how is your master?”

“Why, to speak de troof, massa, him not so berry well as mought be.”

“Not well!  I am truly sorry to hear it.  What does he complain of?”

“Dar! dat’s it!—­him neber plain of notin—­but him berry sick for all dat.”

“Very sick, Jupiter!—­why didn’t you say so at once?  Is he confined to bed?”

“No, dat he aint!—­he aint find nowhar—­dat’s just whar de shoe pinch—­my mind is got to be berry hebby bout poor Massa Will.”

“Jupiter, I should like to understand what it is you are talking about.  You say your master is sick.  Hasn’t he told you what ails him?”