" For the stalwart negro had returned, bringing a tall
bread-bag in his arms: he now set it up before her, remarking, "Dis yar
bag white outside, but him 'nation black inside." To confirm his words,
he drew off the bag, and revealed Ramgolam, his black skin powdered with
meal. The good-natured negro then blew the flour off his face, and dusted
him a bit: the spectators laughed heartily, but Ramgolam never moved a
muscle: not a morsel discomposed at what would have made an European
miserably ashamed, even in a pantomime--the Caucasian darkie retained all
his dignity while the African one dusted him; but, being dusted, he put
on his obsequiousness, stepped forward, joined his palms together to Mrs.
Beresford--like medieval knights and modern children at their
devotions--and addressed her thus:--
"Daughter of light, he who basks in your beams said to himself, 'The
pirates are upon us, those children of blood, whom Sheitan their master
blast for ever! They will ravish the Queen of Sunshine and the ayahs, and
throw the sahibs and sailors into the sea; but, bread being the staff of
existence, these foxes of the water will not harm it, but keep it for
their lawless appetites; therefore Ramgolam, son of Chittroo, son of
Soonarayan, will put the finger of silence on the lip of discretion, and
be bread in the day of adversity: the sons of Sheitan will peradventure
return to dry land and close the eye of watchfulness; then will I emerge
like the sun from a cloud, and depart in peace.
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