“It’s a bad instrument for a good end.  Let the white Georgian come out of his sloth, and the black will rise with him.  Jefferson Davis may not intend it, but God does.  When we have our Lowell, our New York, when we are a self-sustaining people instead of lazy land-princes, Ben here will have climbed the second of the great steps of Humanity.  Do you laugh at us?” said Lamar, with a quiet self-reliance.  “Charley, it needs only work and ambition to cut the brute away from my face, and it will leave traits very like your own.  Ben’s father was a Guinea fetich-worshipper; when we stand where New England does, Ben’s son will be ready for his freedom.”

“And while you theorize,” laughed Dorr, “I hold you a prisoner, John, and Ben knows it is his right to be free.  He will not wait for the grinding of the mill, I fancy.”

Lamar did not smile.  It was womanish in the man, when the life of great nations hung in doubt before them, to go back so constantly to little Floy sitting in the lap of her old black maumer.  But he did it,—­with the quick thought that to-night he must escape, that death lay in delay.

While Dorr talked, Lamar glanced significantly at Ben.  The negro was not slow to understand,—­with a broad grin, touching his pocket, from which projected the dull end of a hand-saw.  I wonder what sudden pain made the negro rise just then, and come close to his master, touching him with a strange affection and remorse in his tired face, as though he had done him some deadly wrong.

“What is it, old fellow?” said Lamar, in his boyish way.  “Homesick, eh?  There’s a little girl in Georgia that will be glad to see you and your master, and take precious good care of us when she gets us safe again.  That’s true, Ben!” laying his hand kindly on the man’s shoulder, while his eyes went wandering off to the hills lying South.

“Yes, Mars’,” said Ben, in a low voice, suddenly bringing a blacking-brush, and beginning to polish his master’s shoes,—­thinking, while he did it, of how often Mars’ John had interfered with the overseers to save him from a flogging,—­(Lamar, in his lazy way, was kind to his slaves,)—­thinking of little Mist’ Floy with an odd tenderness and awe, as a gorilla might of a white dove:  trying to think thus,—­the simple, kindly nature of the negro struggling madly with something beneath, new and horrible.  He understood enough of the talk of the white men to know that there was no help for him,—­none.  Always a slave.  Neither you nor I can ever know what those words meant to him.  The pale purple mist where the North lay was never to be passed.  His dull eyes turned to it constantly,—­with a strange look, such as the lost women might have turned to the door, when Jesus shut it:  they forever outside.  There was a way to help himself?  The stubby black fingers holding the brush grew cold and clammy,—­noting withal, the poor wretch in his slavish way, that his master’s clothes were finer than the Northern captain’s, his hands whiter, and proud that it was so,—­holding Lamar’s foot daintily, trying to see himself in the shoe, smoothing down the trousers with a boorish, affectionate touch,—­with the same fierce whisper in his ear, Would the shoes ever be cleaned again? would the foot move to-morrow?