It was the voice of God:  the scar burned fiercer; the slave came forward boldly,—­

“Mars’er, what shall I do?”

“Give the poor devil a musket,” said one of the men.  “Let him come with us, and strike a blow for freedom.”

He took a knife from his belt, and threw it to him, then sauntered off to his tent.

“A blow for freedom?” mumbled Ben, taking it up.

“Let us sing to the praise of God,” said the boatman, “the sixty-eighth psalm,” lining it out while they sang,—­the scattered men joining, partly to keep themselves awake.  In old times David’s harp charmed away the demon from a human heart.  It roused one now, never to be laid again.  A dull, droning chant, telling how the God of Vengeance rode upon the wind, swift to loose the fetters of the chained, to make desert the rebellious land; with a chorus, or refrain, in which Ben’s wild, melancholy cry sounded like the wail of an avenging spirit:—­

  “That in the blood of enemies
    Thy foot imbrued may be: 
  And of thy dogs dipped in the same
    The tongues thou mayest see.”

The meaning of that was plain; he sang it lower and more steadily each time, his body swaying in cadence, the glitter in his eye more steely.

Lamar, asleep in his prison, was wakened by the far-off plaintive song:  he roused himself, leaning on one elbow, listening with a half-smile.  It was Naomi they sang, he thought,—­an old-fashioned Methodist air that Floy had caught from the negroes, and used to sing to him sometimes.  Every night, down at home, she would come to his parlor-door to say good-night:  he thought he could see the little figure now in its white nightgown, and hear the bare feet pattering on the matting.  When he was alone, she would come in, and sit on his lap awhile, and kneel down before she went away, her head on his knee, to say her prayers, as she called it.  Only God knew how many times he had remained alone after hearing those prayers, saved from nights of drunken debauch.  He thought he felt Floy’s pure little hand on his forehead now, as if she were saying her usual “Good night, Bud.”  He lay down to sleep again, with a genial smile on his face, listening to the hymn.

“It’s the same God,” he said,—­“Floy’s and theirs.”

Outside, as he slept, a dark figure watched him.  The song of the men ceased.  Midnight, white and silent, covered the earth.  He could hear only the slow breathing of the sleeper.  Ben’s black face grew ashy pale, but he did not tremble, as he crept, cat-like, up to the wicket, his blubber lips apart, the white teeth clenched.

“It’s for Freedom, Mars’ Lord!” he gasped, looking up to the sky, as if he expected an answer.  “Gor-a’mighty, it’s for Freedom!” And went in.

A belated bird swooped through the cold moonlight into the valley, and vanished in the far mountain-cliffs with a low, fearing cry, as though it had passed through Hades.