Thrown off his guard by too much wine, Fitzgerald vociferated, “Do you mean to insinuate that I am no gentleman?”

Mr. Bruteman smiled, as he answered:  “I said such a thing was not to be supposed.  But come, Fitzgerald, let us understand one another.  I’d rather, a devilish sight, have those girls than the money you owe me.  Make them over to me, and I’ll cancel the debt.  Otherwise, I shall be under the necessity of laying an attachment on some of your property.”

There was a momentary silence before Mr. Fitzgerald answered, “One of them is dead.”

“Which one?” inquired his comrade.

“Flora, the youngest, was drowned.”

“And that queenly beauty, where is she?  I don’t know that I ever heard her name.”

“Rosabella Royal,” replied Fitzgerald.  “She is living at a convenient distance from my plantation.”

“Well, I will be generous,” said Bruteman.  “If you will make her over to me, I will cancel the debt.”

“She is not in strong health at present,” rejoined Fitzgerald.  “She has a babe about two weeks old.”

“You know you have invited me to visit your island two or three weeks hence,” replied Bruteman; “and then I shall depend upon you to introduce me to your fair Rosamond.  But we will draw up the papers and sign them now, if you please.”

Some jests unfit for repetition were uttered by the creditor, to which the unhappy debtor made no reply.  When he called Tom to bring paper and ink, the observing servant noticed that he was very pale, though but a few moments before his face had been flushed.

That night, he tried to drown recollection in desperate gambling and frequent draughts of wine.  Between one and two o’clock in the morning, his roisterous companions were led off by their servants, and he was put into bed by Tom, where he immediately dropped into a perfectly senseless sleep.

As soon as there was sufficient light, Tom started for the house of the Signor; judging that he was safe from his master for three hours at least.  Notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, Madame made her appearance in a very few moments after her servant informed her who was in waiting, and the Signor soon followed.  In the course of the next hour and a half an incredible amount of talking was done in negro “lingo” and broken English.  The impetuous Signor strode up and down, clenching his fists, cursing slavery, and sending Fitzgerald to the Devil in a volley of phrases hard enough in their significance, though uttered in soft-flowing Italian.

“Swearing does no good, my friend,” said Madame; “besides, there isn’t time for it.  Rosabella must be brought away immediately.  Bruteman will be on the alert, you may depend.  She slipped through his fingers once, and he won’t trust Fitzgerald again.”