"_Mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico_!"
To me the words were full of terrible import. The phrase "Mulato-mico"
was not new to me, and I heard it with a feeling of dread. But it was
scarce possible to increase apprehensions already excited to the full.
A hard fate was before me. The presence of the fiend himself could not
make it more certain.
My fellow-victim shared my thoughts. We were near, and could converse.
On comparing our conjectures, we found that they coincided.
But the point was soon settled beyond conjecture. A harsh voice sounded
in our ears, issuing an abrupt order, that scattered the women away; a
heavy footstep was heard behind--the speaker was approaching.
In another instant his shadow fell upon my face; and the man himself
stood within the limited circle of my vision.
Despite the pigment that disguised his natural complexion--despite the
beaded shirt, the sash, the embroidered leggins--despite the _three
black plumes_, that waved over his brow, I easily identified the man.
He was no Indian, but a mulatto--"yellow Jake" himself.