“It’s a big world,”—­with a bitter chuckle,—­“but der’s no room in it fur poor Ben.”

He dragged himself through the snow to a light in a tent where a voice in a wild drone, like that he had heard at negro camp-meetings, attracted him.  He did not go in:  stood at the tent-door, listening.  Two or three of the guard stood around, leaning on their muskets; in the vivid fire-light rose the gaunt figure of the Illinois boatman, swaying to and fro as he preached.  For the men were honest, God-fearing souls, members of the same church, and Dave, in all integrity of purpose, read aloud to them,—­the cry of Jeremiah against the foul splendors of the doomed city,—­waving, as he spoke, his bony arm to the South.  The shrill voice was that of a man wrestling with his Maker.  The negro’s fired brain caught the terrible meaning of the words,—­found speech in it:  the wide, dark night, the solemn silence of the men, were only fitting audience.

The man caught sight of the slave, and, laying down his book, began one of those strange exhortations in the manner of his sect.  Slow at first, full of unutterable pity.  There was room for pity.  Pointing to the human brute crouching there, made once in the image of God,—­the saddest wreck on His green foot-stool:  to the great stealthy body, the revengeful jaws, the foreboding eyes.  Soul, brains,—­a man, wifeless, homeless, nationless, hawked, flung from trader to trader for a handful of dirty shinplasters.  “Lord God of hosts,” cried the man, lifting up his trembling hands, “lay not this sin to our charge!” There was a scar on Ben’s back where the lash had buried itself:  it stung now in the cold.  He pulled his clothes tighter, that they should not see it; the scar and the words burned into his heart:  the childish nature of the man was gone; the vague darkness in it took a shape and name.  The boatman had been praying for him; the low words seemed to shake the night:—­

“Hear the prayer of Thy servant, and his supplications!  Is not this what Thou hast chosen:  to loose the bands, to undo the heavy burdens, and let the oppressed go free?  O Lord, hear!  O Lord, hearken and do!  Defer not for Thine own sake, O my God!”

“What shall I do?” said the slave, standing up.

The boatman paced slowly to and fro, his voice chording in its dull monotone with the smothered savage muttering in the negro’s brain.

“The day of the Lord cometh; it is nigh at hand.  Who can abide it?  What saith the prophet Jeremiah?  ’Take up a burden against the South.  Cry aloud, spare not.  Woe unto Babylon, for the day of her vengeance is come, the day of her visitation!  Call together the archers against Babylon; camp against it round about; let none thereof escape.  Recompense her:  as she hath done unto my people, be it done unto her.  A sword is upon Babylon:  it shall break in pieces the shepherd and his flock, the man and the woman, the young man and the maid.  I will render unto her the evil she hath done in my sight, saith the Lord.’”