floor, an official drags the wounded man from his grasp.  As some rise, others fall upon him like infuriated animals, and but for the timely presence of Grabguy and Graspum would have despatched him like a bullock chained to a stake.  The presence of these important personages produces a cessation of hostilities; but the victim, disarmed, lies prostrate on the ground, a writhing and distorted body, tortured beyond his strength of endurance.  A circle where the struggle ensued is wet with blood, in which Nicholas bathes his poor writhing body until it becomes one crimson mass.

All attention is now directed to the wounded man, who, it is found, although he has bled freely of good red blood, is neither fatally nor seriously wounded.  It is merely a flesh wound in the arm, such as young gentlemen of the south frequently inflict upon each other for the purpose of sustaining their character for bravery.  But the oppressed slave has raised his hand against a white man,—­he must pay the penalty with his life; he no longer can live to keep peaceful citizens in fear and trembling.  Prostrate on the floor, the victors gather round him again, as Graspum stoops down and unlocks the shackle from his leg.  “It’s the Ingin, you see:  the very devil wouldn’t subdue it, and when once its revenge breaks out you might just as well try to govern a sweeping tornado,” Graspum remarks, coolly, as he calls a negro attendant, and orders the body to be drawn from out the puddle of disfiguring gore.  Languidly that poor bosom heaves, his eyes half close, and his motionless lips pale as death.

“Had I know’d it when I bargained for him, he would never have pested me in this way, never!  But he looked so likely, and had such a quick insight of things,—­Ingin’s Ingin, though!” says Grabguy.

“The very look might have told you that, my dear fellow; I sold him to you with your eyes open, and, of course, expected you to be the judge,” interrupts Graspum, his countenance assuming great commercial seriousness.

Mr. Grabguy politely says, he meant no insinuations.  “Come, Nicholas!  I told you this would be the end on’t,” he continues, stooping down and taking him by the shoulders, with an air of commiseration.

The bruised body, as if suddenly inspired with new life, raises itself half up, and with eyes opening, gazes vacantly at those around, at its own hands besmeared with gore; then, with a curl of contempt on his lip, at the shackle just released from his limb-"Ah, well, it’s ended here; this is the last of me, no doubt,” he murmurs, and makes another attempt to rise.

“Don’t move from where you are!” commands an official, setting his hand firmly against his right shoulder, and pressing him back.  He has got the infective crimson on his hands, chafes them one against the other, perpendicularly, as Nicholas looks at him doubtingly.  “It’s all over—­I’ll not harm you; take me to a slaughter-house if you will,—­I care not,” he says, still keeping his eye on the official.