Seven months have passed since they were shut up in a felon’s cell.  They have been visited by Marston; he has been kind to them,—­kind as a father could be under such circumstances.  Franconia has not forgotten them:  she sends many little things to lighten the gloom of their confinement; but society closes her lips, and will frown upon any disclosure she may make of their parentage.  Were she to disclose it to Colonel M’Carstrow, the effect would be doubtful:  it might add to the suspicious circumstances already excited against her unfortunate uncle.  The paramount question-whether they are hereafter to be chattel slaves, or human beings with inalienable rights-must be submitted to the decision of a judicial tribunal.  It is by no means an uncommon case, but very full of interest.  It will merely be interesting-not as involving any new question of law, nor presenting new phases of southern jurisprudence-in showing what very notorious dealers in human kind, and lawyers of great legal ability, can morally and legally perform.  It will show how great men figure in the arena of legal degradation, how they unravel the mystery of slave power.

Graspum, professedly uninterested, has purchased the claims, and will pursue the payment in the name of the original plaintiffs.  With Romescos’s cunning aid, of course the trial will be a perfect farce, the only exception being that the very profound Mr. Graspum will exhibit a degree of great sincerity on his part.

The sessions are sitting; the day for the trial of this important case has arrived; the little dingy court-room is early crowded to excess, but there is not much expression of anxiety.  Men speak lightly of the issue, as if some simple game were to be played.  The judge, a grave-looking gentleman of no ordinary mien, in whose full countenance sternness is predominant in the well-displayed estimation in which he holds his important self, walks measuredly into court-the lacqueys of the law crying “Court! court!” to which he bows-and takes his seat upon an elevated tribune.  There is great solemnity preserved at the opening:  the sheriff, with well-ordained costume and sword, sits at his honour’s left, his deputy on the right, and the very honourable clerk of the court just below, where there can be no impediment during the process of feeding “the Court” on very legal points of “nigger law.”  In truth, the solemnity of this court, to those unacquainted with the tenor of legal proceedings at the south, might have been misconstrued for something more in keeping with justice.

The legal gentlemen, most modest of face, are seated round the bar-a semicircular railing dividing their dignity from the common spectator-waiting the reading of the docket.  The clerk takes his time about that, and seems a great favourite with the spectators, who applaud his rising.  He reads, the sheriff crying “order! order!” while the judge learnedly examines his notes.  Some consultation takes place between several of the attorneys, which