“He was as much a gentleman, as my mother was a lady; and I would rather be his daughter, than call a king my father.”

“I believe you!  There ain’t no drop of scrub blood in you, as I can see, and if you ain’t thoroughbred, ’pearances are deceitful.  I loved your ma; I loved the very ground her little feet trod on.  I fed her out of my own plate many a time, ’cause she thought her Mammy’s vittils was sweeter than what Mistiss ’lowed her to have; and she have slept in my bosom, and these arms have carried her, and hugged her, and—­and—­oh, Lord God A’mighty! it most kills me to see you, her own little baby here!  In this awful, cussed den of thieves and villi-yans!  Oh, honey! for God’s sake, just gin me some ’surance you are as pure as you look; just tell me your soul is a lily, like your face.”

Beryl stooped, put her hand on the turbaned head, and bending it back, so as to look down into the swimming eyes, answered: 

“If I had died when I was a month old, my baby soul would not have faced God any more innocent of crime then, than I am to-day.  I had no more to do with taking General Darrington’s money and his life, than the archangels in Heaven.”

“Bless God!  Now I am satisfied.  Now I see my way clare.  But it sets my blood afire to see you here; it’s a burning shame to put my dear young Mistiss’ child in this beasts’ cage.  I can’t help thinking of that poor beautiful white deer, what Marster found crippled, down at our ‘Bend’ Plantation, that some vagabond had shot.  Marster fotch it up home, and of all the pitifulist sights!”

Dyce had risen, and covering her face with her white apron, she wept for some minutes.

“Are you not the wife of Bedney, who saved my mother’s life, when the barn burned?”

“Yes, honey, I am Mam’ Dyce, and if I am spared, I will try to save your’n.  That is what has brung me here.  You are ’cused of the robb’ry and the murder, and you have denied it in the court; but chile, the lie-yers are aworking day and night fur to hang you, and little is made of much, on your side, and much is spun out of little, on theirn.  They are more cunning than foxes, and bloodthirstier than panters, and they no more git tired than the spiders, that spin and piece a web as fast as you break it.  Three nights ago, I got down on my knees, and I kissed a little pink morocco slipper what your Ma wore the day when she took her first step from my arm to her own mother’s knees, and I swore a solemn oath, if I could help free Miss Ellie’s child, I would do it.  Now I want to ask you one thing.  Did you lose anything that day you come to our house, and had the talk with old Marster?”

“Nothing, but my peace and happiness.”

“Are you shore you didn’t drap your hank’cher?”

“Yes, I am sure I did not, because I wrapped it around some chrysanthemums I gathered as I went away.”