“Not a preacher trick, I say again-Romescos evinces signs of increasing temper-ya’ black theologin.  Preachers can’t put on such dignity when they’r property.”  Preachers of colour must be doubly humbled:  they must be humble before God, humbled before King Cotton, humbled before the king dealer, who will sell them for their dollars’ worth.  Harry must do the bidding of his king master; his monkey tricks won’t shine with such a philosopher as Romescos.  The man of bones, blood, and flesh, can tell him to sell a nigger preacher to his brother of the ministry, and make it very profitable.  He assures Harry, while holding the shackles in his hands, that he may put on just as much of the preacher as he can get, when he gets to the shambles, and hears the fives and tens bidding on his black hide.

Harry must submit; he does it with pain and reluctance.  He is chained to his wife-a favour suggested by the sheriff-with whom he can walk the streets of a free country,—­but they must be bound in freedom’s iron fellowship.  The iron shackle clasps his wrist; the lock ticks as Romescos turns the key:  it vibrates to his very heart.  With a sigh he says, “Ours is a life of sorrow, streaming its dark way along a dangerous path.  It will ebb into the bright and beautiful of heaven; that heaven wherein we put our trust-where our hopes are strengthened.  O! come the day when we shall be borne to the realms of joy-joy celestial!  There no unholy shade of birth-unholy only to man-shall doom us; the colour of our skin will not there be our misfortune-”

“What!” quickly interrupts Romescos, “what’s that?” The property minister, thus circumstanced, must not show belligerent feelings.  Romescos simply, but very skilfully, draws his club; measures him an unamiable blow on the head, fells him to the ground.  The poor wretch struggles a few moments, raises his manacled hands to his face as his wife falls weeping upon his shuddering body.  She supplicates mercy at the hands of the ruffian-the ruffian torturer.  “Quietly, mas’r; my man ’ill go wid me,” says the woman, interposing her hand to prevent a second blow.

Harry opens his eyes imploringly, casts a look of pity upon the man standing over him.  Romescos is in the attitude of dealing him another blow.  The wretch stays his hand.  “Do with me as you please, master; you are over me.  My hope will be my protector when your pleasure will have its reward.”

A second thought has struck Romescos; the nigger isn’t so bad, after all.  “Well, reckon how nobody won’t have no objection to ya’r thinking just as ya’v mind to; but ya’ can’t talk ya’r own way, nor ya’ can’t have ya’r own way with this child.  A nigger what puts on parson airs-if it is a progressive age nigger-musn’t put on fast notions to a white gentleman of my standing!  If he does, we just take ’em out on him by the process of a small quantity of first-rate knockin down,” says Romescos, amiably lending him a hand to get up.