The iron shackle clasps his wrist; the
lock ticks as Romescos turns the key: it vibrates to his very heart.
With a sigh he says, "Ours is a life of sorrow, streaming its dark
way along a dangerous path. It will ebb into the bright and
beautiful of heaven; that heaven wherein we put our trust-where our
hopes are strengthened. O! come the day when we shall be borne to
the realms of joy-joy celestial! There no unholy shade of
birth-unholy only to man-shall doom us; the colour of our skin will
not there be our misfortune-"
"What!" quickly interrupts Romescos, "what's that?" The property
minister, thus circumstanced, must not show belligerent feelings.
Romescos simply, but very skilfully, draws his club; measures him an
unamiable blow on the head, fells him to the ground. The poor wretch
struggles a few moments, raises his manacled hands to his face as
his wife falls weeping upon his shuddering body. She supplicates
mercy at the hands of the ruffian-the ruffian torturer. "Quietly,
mas'r; my man 'ill go wid me," says the woman, interposing her hand
to prevent a second blow.
Harry opens his eyes imploringly, casts a look of pity upon the man
standing over him. Romescos is in the attitude of dealing him
another blow. The wretch stays his hand. "Do with me as you please,
master; you are over me. My hope will be my protector when your
pleasure will have its reward."
A second thought has struck Romescos; the nigger isn't so bad, after
all. "Well, reckon how nobody won't have no objection to ya'r
thinking just as ya'v mind to; but ya' can't talk ya'r own way, nor
ya' can't have ya'r own way with this child.
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