the light of the swinging lamp full upon her.  The impression she made is with me yet.  Hers was a refined, patrician face, crowned by a wealth of dark hair.  Indignant eyes of hazel brown, shadowed by long lashes, brightened a face whitened by intense emotion, and brought into agreeable contrast flushed cheeks, and red, scornful lips.  A dimpled chin, a round, full throat, and the figure of young womanhood, slender and yet softly curved, altogether formed a picture so entrancing as to never again desert my imagination.  With one bound my heart went out to her in sympathy, in admiration, in full and complete surrender.  Yet, even in that instant, the knowledge of the truth, in all its unspeakable horror, assailed me—­this girl, this proud, beautiful girl, was a slave; within her veins a cursed drop of negro blood stained her with dishonor, made of her a chattel; and the sneering brute she faced was by law her master.  My hands clinched in the agony of the thought, the knowledge of my own impotence.  Yet all this was but the flash of an instant.  Before I could change posture, almost before I could draw fresh breath, her voice, trembling slightly with an emotion she was unable wholly to suppress, yet sounding clear as a bell, addressed the man confronting her.

“May I ask, sir, what this outrage means?  I presume you are responsible for the insolence of this fellow who brought me here?”

Kirby laughed, but not altogether at ease.

“Well, not altogether,” he answered, “as his methods are entirely his own.  I merely told him to go after you.”

“For what purpose?”

“So pretty a girl should not ask that.  Carver, close the door, and wait outside.”

I could mark the quick rise and fall of her bosom, And the look of fear she was unable to disguise.  Yet not a limb moved as the door closed, nor did the glance of those brown eyes waver.

“You are not the same man I met here before,” she began doubtfully.  “He said he was connected with the sheriff’s office.  Who are you?”

“My name is Kirby; the sheriff is here under my orders.”

“Kirby!—­the—­the gambler?”

“Well I play cards occasionally, and you have probably heard of me before.  Even if you never had until tonight, it is pretty safe to bet that you do now.  Donaldson, or his man, told you, so there is no use of my mincing matters any, nor of your pretence at ignorance.”

“I know,” she admitted, “that you won this property at cards, and have now come to take possession.  Is that what you mean?”

“That, at least, is part of it,” and he took a step toward her, his thin lips twisted into a smile.  “But not all.  Perhaps Donaldson failed to tell you the rest, and left me to break the news.  Well, it won’t hurt me any.  Not only this plantation is mine, but every nigger on it as well.  You are Rene Beaucaire?”

“Yes,” she replied, slowly, almost under her breath, and hesitating ever so slightly, “I am Rene Beaucaire.”