“Gentlemen, who are you, down there, and what do you want?”

“We want a party of runaway niggers,” said Tom Loker.  “One George Harris, and Eliza Harris, and their son, and Jim Selden, and an old woman.  We’ve got the officers, here, and a warrant to take ’em; and we’re going to have ’em, too.  D’ye hear?  An’t you George Harris, that belongs to Mr. Harris, of Shelby county, Kentucky?”

“I am George Harris.  A Mr. Harris, of Kentucky, did call me his property.  But now I’m a free man, standing on God’s free soil; and my wife and my child I claim as mine.  Jim and his mother are here.  We have arms to defend ourselves, and we mean to do it.  You can come up, if you like; but the first one of you that comes within the range of our bullets is a dead man, and the next, and the next; and so on till the last.”

“O, come! come!” said a short, puffy man, stepping forward, and blowing his nose as he did so.  “Young man, this an’t no kind of talk at all for you.  You see, we’re officers of justice.  We’ve got the law on our side, and the power, and so forth; so you’d better give up peaceably, you see; for you’ll certainly have to give up, at last.”

“I know very well that you’ve got the law on your side, and the power,” said George, bitterly.  “You mean to take my wife to sell in New Orleans, and put my boy like a calf in a trader’s pen, and send Jim’s old mother to the brute that whipped and abused her before, because he couldn’t abuse her son.  You want to send Jim and me back to be whipped and tortured, and ground down under the heels of them that you call masters; and your laws will bear you out in it,—­more shame for you and them!  But you haven’t got us.  We don’t own your laws; we don’t own your country; we stand here as free, under God’s sky, as you are; and, by the great God that made us, we’ll fight for our liberty till we die.”

George stood out in fair sight, on the top of the rock, as he made his declaration of independence; the glow of dawn gave a flush to his swarthy cheek, and bitter indignation and despair gave fire to his dark eye; and, as if appealing from man to the justice of God, he raised his hand to heaven as he spoke.

If it had been only a Hungarian youth, now bravely defending in some mountain fastness the retreat of fugitives escaping from Austria into America, this would have been sublime heroism; but as it was a youth of African descent, defending the retreat of fugitives through America into Canada, of course we are too well instructed and patriotic to see any heroism in it; and if any of our readers do, they must do it on their own private responsibility.  When despairing Hungarian fugitives make their way, against all the search-warrants and authorities of their lawful government, to America, press and political cabinet ring with applause and welcome.  When despairing African fugitives do the same thing,—­it is—­what is it?

Be it as it may, it is certain that the attitude, eye, voice, manner, of the speaker for a moment struck the party below to silence.  There is something in boldness and determination that for a time hushes even the rudest nature.  Marks was the only one who remained wholly untouched.  He was deliberately cocking his pistol, and, in the momentary silence that followed George’s speech, he fired at him.