Aunt Katie turned her face towards the speaker.  It was a thoughtful, intelligent face, saintly and calm.  A face which expressed the idea of a soul which had been fearfully tempest tossed, but had passed through suffering into peace.  Very touching was the look of resignation and hope which overspread her features as she replied, with the simple child-like faith which she had learned in the darkest hour, “The Lord says, we must forgive.”  And with her that thought, as coming from the lips of Divine Love, was enough to settle the whole question of forgiveness of injuries and love to enemies.

“Well,” said Thomas Anderson, turning to Uncle Daniel, “we can’t count on yer to go wid us?”

“Boys,” said Uncle Daniel, and there was grief in his voice, “I’se mighty glad you hab a chance for your freedom; but, ez I tole yer, I promised Marse Robert I would stay, an’ I mus’ be as good as my word.  Don’t you youngsters stay for an ole stager like me.  I’m ole an’ mos’ worn out.  Freedom wouldn’t do much for me, but I want you all to be as free as the birds; so, you chillen, take your freedom when you kin get it.”

“But, Uncle Dan’el, you won’t say nothin’ ’bout our going, will you?” said the youngest of the company.

Uncle Daniel slowly arose.  There was a mournful flash in his eye, a tremor of emotion in his voice, as he said, “Look yere, boys, de boy dat axed dat question war a new comer on dis plantation, but some ob you’s bin here all ob your lives; did you eber know ob Uncle Dan’el gittin’ any ob you inter trouble?”

“No, no,” exclaimed a chorus of voices, “but many’s de time you’ve held off de blows wen de oberseer got too mean, an’ cruelized us too much, wen Marse Robert war away.  An’ wen he got back, you made him settle de oberseer’s hash.”

“Well, boys,” said Uncle Daniel, with an air of mournful dignity, “I’se de same Uncle Dan’el I eber war.  Ef any ob you wants to go, I habben’t a word to say agin it.  I specs dem Yankees be all right, but I knows Marse Robert, an’ I don’t know dem, an’ I ain’t a gwine ter throw away dirty water ’til I gits clean.”

“Well, Uncle Ben,” said Robert, addressing a stalwart man whose towering form and darkly flashing eye told that slavery had failed to put the crouch in his shoulders or general abjectness into his demeanor, “you will go with us, for sure, won’t you?”

“Yes,” spoke up Tom Anderson, “’cause de trader’s done took your wife, an’ got her for his’n now.”

As Ben Tunnel looked at the speaker, a spasm of agony and anger darkened his face and distorted his features, as if the blood of some strong race were stirring with sudden vigor through his veins.  He clutched his hands together, as if he were struggling with an invisible foe, and for a moment he remained silent.  Then suddenly raising his head, he exclaimed, “Boys, there’s not one of you loves freedom more than I do, but—­”

“But what?” said Tom.  “Do you think white folks is your bes’ friends?”