“How cunning it was in the black vagrant!  I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he cleared straight for Massachusetts-Massachusetts hates our State.  Her abolitionists will ruin us yet, sure as the world.  We men of the South must do something on a grand scale to protect our rights and our property.  The merchants of the North will help us; they are all interested in slave labour.  Cotton is king; and cotton can rule, if it will.  Cotton can make friendship strong, and political power great.

“There’s my cousin John, ye see; he lives north, but is married to a woman south.  He got her with seventeen mules and twenty-three niggers.  And there’s brother Jake’s daughter was married to a planter out south what owns lots o’ niggers.  And there’s good old uncle Richard; he traded a long time with down south folks, made heaps a money tradin niggers in a sly way, and never heard a word said about slavery not being right, that he did’nt get into a deuce of a fuss, and feel like fightin?  Two of Simon Wattler’s gals were married down south, and all the family connections became down-south in principle.  And here’s Judge Brooks out here, the very best down-south Judge on the bench; he come from cousin Ephraim’s neighbourhood, down east.  It’s just this way things is snarled up a’tween us and them ar’ fellers down New England way.  It keeps up the strength of our peculiar institution, though.  And southern Editors! just look at them; why, Lord love yer soul! two thirds on’ em are imported from down-north way; and they make the very best southern-principled men.  I thought of that last night, when Mr. Jones with the horns looked as if he would go with him.  But, I’ll have that preachin vagrant, I’ll have him!” says Mr. M’Fadden, emphatically, seeming much more at rest about his departing affairs.  As the shadows of death fade from his sight into their proper distance, worldly figures and property justice resume their wonted possession of his thoughts.

Again, as if suddenly seized with pain, he contorts his face, and enquires in a half-whisper—­“What if this wound should mortify? would death follow quickly?  I’m dubious yet!”

Mine host approaches nearer his bed-side, takes his hand.  M’Fadden, with much apparent meekness, would know what he thought of his case?

He is assured by the kind gentleman that he is entirely out of danger-worth a whole parish of dead men.  At the same time, mine host insinuates that he will never do to fight duels until he learns to die fashionably.

M’Fadden smiles,—­remembers how many men have been nearly killed and yet escaped the undertaker,—­seems to have regained strength, and calls for a glass of whiskey and water.  Not too strong! but, reminding mine host of the excellent quality of his bitters, he suggests that a little may better his case.

“I didn’t mean the wound,” resuming his anxiety for the lost preacher:  “I meant the case of the runaway?”