“No,” replied Mesty.

“Are you very fond of him? does he treat you well, give you plenty of money?”

At these questions, the artful black conceived that there was something in the wind, and he therefore very quietly replied, “I do not care much for him.”

The friar fixed his keen eye upon Mesty, and perceived there was a savage look about the black, from which he augured that he was a man who would suit his purpose.

“Your master offers me a thousand dollars; would you wish to gain this money for yourself?”

Mesty grinned, and showed his sharp-filed teeth.

“It would make me a rich man in my own country.”

“It would,” replied the friar; “now you shall have it, if you will only give your master a small powder.”

“I understand,” replied Mesty; “hab those things in my country.”

“Well— do you consent?— if so, I will write the letter to get the money.”

“Suppose they find me out?” replied Mesty.

“You will be safe, and you shall be sent away as soon as possible— say, will you consent?”

“The whole thousand dollars?”

“Every one of them.”

“Den give me the powder.”

“Stay a little,” replied the friar, who went out of the cell, and, in about ten minutes, returned with an answer to our hero’s letter, and a paper containing a greyish powder.

“Give him this in his soup or anything— spread it on his meat, or mix it up with his sugar if he eats an orange.”

“I see,” replied Mesty.

“The dollars shall be yours. I swear it on the holy cross.”

Mesty grinned horribly, took his credentials, and then asked, “When I come again?”

“As soon as you have received the money bring it to me at Don Rebiera’s— then give the powder: as soon as it is given you must let me know, for you must not remain in Palermo. I will myself conduct you to a place of safety.”

Mesty then quitted the cell, and was shown out of the monastery.

“By de holy poker he one d— n rascal!” muttered Mesty, as he was once in the open air. “But stop a little.”

The Ashantee soon arrived at the barracks, and repeated the whole of the conference between him and the Friar Thomaso.

“It must be poison, of course,” observed Gascoigne; “suppose we try it upon some animal?”