“I’d rather sell him for a song than he should disturb the peace of the city thus.”  To New Orleans Mr. Grabguy sends his unsubdued property; but that the threatened sale is only a feint to more effectually dissolve the contract and forfeit the money paid as part of his freedom, he soon becomes fully sensible.  Doubly incensed at such conduct the fire of his determination burns more fiercely; if no justice for him be made manifest on earth his spirit is consoled with the knowledge of a reward in heaven.  Having tortured for months the unyielding man, Grabguy, with blandest professions of kindness, commands that the lacerated servant be brought back to his domicile.  Here, with offers of kindness, and sundry pretexts of his sincerity, the master will pledge his honour to keep faith with his slave.  The defrauded wretch knows but too well how little confidence he can place in such promises; to such promises does he turn a deaf ear.  Grabguy, if serious, must give him back his wife, his children, and his hard earnings, in which the joyous hope of gaining freedom was centred:  that hope had carried him through many trials.  Sad is the dilemma in which Mr. Grabguy finds himself placed; simple justice to the man would have long since settled the question.

And now Nicholas is a second time sent to Graspum’s pen, where living men are chained to rings of fierce iron for loving freedom and their country.  For twenty-two days and nights is he chained to that floor where his soul had before been tortured.  Threats of being returned to New Orleans again ring their leaden music in his ears; but they have no terrors for him; his indignant spirit has battled with torture and vanquished its smart—­he will defend himself unto death rather than be made the object of a sham sale.  A vessel for New Orleans waits in the harbour a fair wind for sailing.  On board of her Mr. Grabguy will carry out his resolve; and to which end the reader will please accompany us to a small cell in Graspum’s pen, about fourteen by sixteen feet, and seven in height—­in the centre of which is chained to a ring that man, once so manly of figure, whose features are now worn down by sorrow or distorted by torture,—­as three policemen enter to carry out the order of shipment.  The heavy chain and shackle with which his left foot is secured yield to him a circuit of some four feet.  As the officials advance his face brightens up with animation; his spirit resumes its fiery action, and with a flashing knife, no one knows by whom provided, he bids them advance no further.

“You must go to the whipping-post, my good fellow!  I know it’s kind of hard; but obey orders we must.  Ye see, I’ve gin ye good advice, time and agin; but ye won’t take it, and so ye must abide the consequences,” says one of the officials, who advances before the others, and addresses himself to the chained man.

“I’ll go to a whipping-post no more!” exclaims Nicholas, his angry spirit flashing in his face, as in an attitude of defence he presses his right hand into his bosom, and frowns defiantly upon the intruders.