The last three sentences stung Tom into a fury, and he said to himself that if his father were only alive and in reach of assassination his mother would soon find that he had a very clear notion of the size of his indebtedness to that man, and was willing to pay it up in full, and would do it too, even at risk of his life; but he kept this thought to himself; that was safest in his mother’s present state.

“Whatever has come o’ yo’ Essex blood?  Dat’s what I can’t understan’.  En it ain’t on’y jist Essex blood dat’s in you, not by a long sight—­’deed it ain’t!  My great-great-great-gran’father en yo’ great-great-great-great-gran’father was Ole Cap’n John Smith, de highest blood dat Ole Virginny ever turned out, en his great-great-gran’mother, or somers along back dah, was Pocahontas de Injun queen, en her husbun’ was a nigger king outen Africa—­en yit here you is, a slinkin’ outen a duel en disgracin’ our whole line like a ornery lowdown hound!  Yes, it’s de nigger in you!”

She sat down on her candle box and fell into a reverie.  Tom did not disturb her; he sometimes lacked prudence, but it was not in circumstances of this kind, Roxana’s storm went gradually down, but it died hard, and even when it seemed to be quite gone, it would now and then break out in a distant rumble, so to speak, in the form of muttered ejaculations.  One of these was, “Ain’t nigger enough in him to show in his fingernails, en dat takes mighty little—­yit dey’s enough to pain his soul.”

Presently she muttered.  “Yassir, enough to paint a whole thimbleful of ’em.”  At last her ramblings ceased altogether, and her countenance began to clear—­a welcome sight to Tom, who had learned her moods, and knew she was on the threshold of good humor now.  He noticed that from time to time she unconsciously carried her finger to the end of her nose.  He looked closer and said: 

“Why, Mammy, the end of your nose is skinned.  How did that come?”

She sent out the sort of wholehearted peal of laughter which God had vouchsafed in its perfection to none but the happy angels in heaven and the bruised and broken black slave on the earth, and said: 

“Dad fetch dat duel, I be’n in it myself.”

“Gracious! did a bullet to that?”

“Yassir, you bet it did!”

“Well, I declare!  Why, how did that happen?”

“Happened dis-away.  I ‘uz a-sett’n’ here kinder dozin’ in de dark, en che-bang! goes a gun, right out dah.  I skips along out towards t’other end o’ de house to see what’s gwine on, en stops by de ole winder on de side towards Pudd’nhead Wilson’s house dat ain’t got no sash in it—­but dey ain’t none of ’em got any sashes, for as dat’s concerned—­en I stood dah in de dark en look out, en dar in the moonlight, right down under me ‘uz one o’ de twins a-cussin’—­not much, but jist a-cussin’ soft—­it ’uz de brown one dat ‘uz cussin,’ ’ca’se he ’uz hit in de shoulder.  En Doctor Claypool