“Have her coming,” he returns, facing Blowers.  “Nothing the matter with that gal,” he exclaims, touching his elbow.  “It is merely one of her flimsy fits; she hasn’t quite come to maturity.”

Slowly the negro leads her, weeping (Graspum says they will cry-it’s natural!) into the presence of the far-famed and much-feared Mr. Pringle Blowers.  Her hair hangs carelessly about her neck and shoulders, the open incision of her dress discloses a neatly worked stomacher; how sweetly glows the melancholy that broods over her countenance!  “I’ll take her-I’ll take her!” exclaims Blowers, in spasmodic ecstasy.

“I know’d you would; I’ll suit you to a charm,” rejoins the man of trade, laconically, as the negro steps a few feet backward, and watches the process.  “Considers it a trade,” is the reply of Blowers, as he orders his waggon to be brought to the door.

“Oh! master, master! save me-save me! and let me die in peace.  Don’t, good master, don’t sell me again!” Thus saying she falls on her knees at Graspum’s feet, and with hands uplifted beseeches him to save her from the hands of a man whose very sight she loathes.  She reads the man’s character in his face; she knows too well the hellish purpose for which he buys her.  Bitter, bitter, are the tears of anguish she sheds at his feet, deep and piercing are her bemoanings.  Again her soft, sorrowing eyes wander in prayer to heaven:  as Graspum is a husband, a brother, and a father,—­whose children are yet in the world’s travel of uncertainty, she beseeches him to save her from that man.

“Don’t be mad, girl,” he says, pushing her hand from him.

“Frightened, eh?  Make ye love me, yet!  Why, gal, ye never had such a master in the world as I’ll be to ye.  I lay I makes a lady on ye, and lets ye have it all yer own way, afore a fortnight,” he rejoins, spreading his brawny arms over her, as she, in an attitude of fright, vaults from beneath them, and, uttering a faint cry, glides crouching into a corner of the pen.  There is no protection for her now; her weepings and implorings fall harmless on the slavedealer’s ears; heaven will protect her when earth knows her no more!

“There’s two can play a game like that, gal!” exclaims Blowers.  “Rough play like that don’t do with this ere citizen.  Can just take the vixen out on a dozen on ye as what don’t know what’s good for ’em.”  Blowers is evidently allowing his temper to get the better of him.  He stands a few feet from her, makes grim his florid face, gesticulates his hands, and daringly advances toward her as the negro announces the arrival of his waggon.

“You must go with him, girl; stop working yourself into a fever; stop it, I say,” interposes Graspum, peremptorily.  “The waggon! the waggon! the waggon! to carry me away, away;—­never, never to return and see my mother?” she exclaims, as well nigh in convulsions she shrieks, when Blowers grasps her in his arms (Graspum saying, be gentle, Blowers), drags her to the door, and by force thrusts her into the waggon, stifling her cries as on the road they drive quickly away.  As the last faint wail dies away, and the vehicle bearing its victim disappears in the distance, we think how sweet is liberty, how prone to injustice is man, how crushing of right are democracy’s base practices.