"Don't be mad, girl," he says, pushing her hand from him.
"Frightened, eh? Make ye love me, yet! Why, gal, ye never had such a
master in the world as I'll be to ye. I lay I makes a lady on ye,
and lets ye have it all yer own way, afore a fortnight," he rejoins,
spreading his brawny arms over her, as she, in an attitude of
fright, vaults from beneath them, and, uttering a faint cry, glides
crouching into a corner of the pen. There is no protection for her
now; her weepings and implorings fall harmless on the slavedealer's
ears; heaven will protect her when earth knows her no more!
"There's two can play a game like that, gal!" exclaims Blowers.
"Rough play like that don't do with this ere citizen. Can just take
the vixen out on a dozen on ye as what don't know what's good for
'em." Blowers is evidently allowing his temper to get the better of
him. He stands a few feet from her, makes grim his florid face,
gesticulates his hands, and daringly advances toward her as the
negro announces the arrival of his waggon.
"You must go with him, girl; stop working yourself into a fever;
stop it, I say," interposes Graspum, peremptorily. "The waggon! the
waggon! the waggon! to carry me away, away;--never, never to return
and see my mother?" she exclaims, as well nigh in convulsions she
shrieks, when Blowers grasps her in his arms (Graspum saying, be
gentle, Blowers), drags her to the door, and by force thrusts her
into the waggon, stifling her cries as on the road they drive
quickly away.
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