“Lor! good Lor, Mas’r Buckra,” aunt Rachel exclaims, “if eber de Lor’ smote ’e vengence on yeh, ‘t’ll be fo’ sellin’ de likes o’ dese.  Old Mas’r tinks much on ’em, fo’ true.  Gwine t’ sell dem what Mas’r be so fond on?  Hard tellin’ what Buckra don’t sell win i’ makes money on him.  Neber mind, children; de Lor’ aint so unsartin as white man.  He,—­da’h good Mas’r yonder in the clouds,—­save ye yet; he’ll make white man gin ye back when de day o’ judgment come.”  Aunt Rachel has an instinctive knowledge of the errors, accidents, and delays which have brought about this sad event,—­she becomes absorbed in their cares, as she loses sight of her own trouble.

All ready for the market, they are chained together in pairs, men and women, as if the wrongs they bore had made them untrustworthy.

Romescos, ever employed in his favourite trade, is busily engaged chaining up-assorting the pairs!  One by one they quietly submit to the proceeding, until he reaches Harry.  That minister-of-the-gospel piece of property thinks,—­that is, is foolish enough to think,—­his nigger religion a sufficient guarantee against any inert propensity to run away.  “Now, good master, save my hands from irons, and my heart from pain.  Trust me, let me go unbound; my old Master trust me wid ’is life-”

“Halloo!” says Romescos, quickly interrupting, and beginning to bristle with rage; “preach about old Master here you’ll get the tinglers, I reckon.  Put ’em on-not a grunt-or you’ll get thirty more-yes, a collar on yer neck.”  Holding a heavy stick over the poor victim’s head, for several minutes with one hand, he rubs the other, clenched, several times across his nose.  Graspum interposes by reminding the minister that it is for his interest to be very careful how he makes any reply to white gentlemen.

“Why, massa, I’ze the minister on de plantation.  My old master wouldn’t sell-wouldn’t do so wid me.  Master knows I love God, am honest and peaceable.  Why chain the honest? why chain the peaceable? why chain the innocent?  They need no fetters, no poisoning shackles.  The guilty only fear the hand of retribution,” says Harry, a curl of contempt on his lip.  He takes a step backwards as Romescos holds the heavy irons before him.

“You don’t come nigger preacher over this ar’ child; ’t’ant what’s crack’d up to be.  I larns niggers to preach different tunes.  Don’t spoil prime stock for such nonsense-”

“Master Sheriff will stand answerable for me,” interrupts Harry, turning to that honourable functionary, and claiming his protection.  That gentleman says it is rather out of his line to interfere.