A year passed:  he might have enjoyed the felicity of domestic life, the affections of a beautiful bride; but the change was too sudden for his restless spirit.  He was not made to enjoy the quiet of life, the task stood before him like a mountain without a pass, he could not wean himself from the vices of a marauder.  He had abused the free offerings of a free country, had set law at defiance; he had dealt in human flesh, and the task of resistance was more than the moral element in his nature could effect.  Violations of human laws were mere speculations to him; they had beguiled him, body and soul.  He had no apology for violating personal feeling; what cared he for that small consideration, when the bodies of men, women, and children could be sacrificed for that gold which would give him position among the men of the south.  If he carried off poor whites, and sold them into slavery, he saw no enormity in the performance; the law invested him with power he made absolute.  Society was chargeable with all his wrongs, with all his crimes, all his enormities.  He had repeatedly told it so, pointing for proof to that literal observance of the rule by which man is made mere merchandise.  Society had continued in its pedantic folly, disregarding legal rights, imposing no restraints on the holder of human property, violating its spirit and pride by neglecting to enforce the great principles of justice whereby we are bound to protect the lives of those unjustly considered inferior beings.  Thus ends a sketch of what Romescos gave of his own career.

We now find him associated with the desperadoes of slave-dealing, in the scene we have presented.  After Romescos had related what he called the romance of his life,—­intended, no doubt, to impress the party with his power and intrepidity, and enable him to set a higher value upon his services,—­he lighted a pipe, threw his hat upon the floor, commenced pacing up and down the room, as if labouring under deep excitement.  And while each one seemed watching him intently, a loud knocking was heard at the door,—­then the baying of blood-hounds, the yelps of curs, mingling with the murmurs of those poor wretches confined in the cells beneath.  Then followed the clanking of chains, cries, and wailings, startling and fearful.

Dan Bengal sprang to the door, as if conscious of its import.  A voice demanded admittance; and as the door opened Bengal exclaimed, “Halloo!-here’s Nath Nimrod:  what’s the tune of the adventure?”

A short, stout man entered, dressed in a coarse homespun hunting dress, a profuse black beard and moustache nearly covering his face.  “I is’nt so bad a feller a’ter all-is I?” he says, rushing forward into the centre of the room, followed by four huge hounds.  They were noble animals, had more instinctive gentleness than their masters, displayed a knowledge of the importance of the prize they had just gained.

“Hurrah for Nath! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah, for Nath!  You got him, Nath-did’nt ye?” resounded from several tongues, and was followed by a variety of expressions highly complimentary to his efficiency.