Surrounded by all these dark forebodings, Marston begins to reflect on his past life.  He sees that mercy which overlooks the sins of man when repentance is pure; but his life is full of moral blemishes; he has sinned against the innocent, against the God of forgiveness.  The inert of his nature is unfolding itself,—­he has lived according to the tolerated vices of society-he has done no more than the law gave him a right to do!  And yet, that very society, overlooking its own wrongs, would now strip him of its associations.  He lives in a State where it is difficult to tell what society will approve or reprobate; where a rich man may do with impunity what would consign a poor man to the gallows.

If we examine the many rencontres that take place in the south, especially those proving fatal, we will find that the perpetrator, if he be a rich man, invariably receives an “honourable acquittal.”  Again, when the man of position shoots down his victim in the streets of a city, he is esteemed brave; but a singular reversion takes place if the rencontre be between poor men.  It is then a diabolical act, a murder, which nothing short of the gallows can serve for punishment.  The creatures whom he had made mere objects to serve his sensuality were before him; he traced the gloomy history of their unfortunate sires; he knew that Ellen and Clotilda were born free.  The cordon that had bound his feelings to the system of slavery relaxed.  For the first time, he saw that which he could not recognise in his better nature-himself the medium of keeping human beings in slavery who were the rightful heirs of freedom.  The blackness of the crime-its cruelty, its injustice-haunted him; they were at that very moment held by Graspum’s caprice.  He might doom the poor wretches to irretrievable slavery, to torture and death!  Then his mind wandered to Annette and Nicholas; he saw them of his own flesh and blood; his natural affections bounded forth; how could he disown them?  The creations of love and right were upon him, misfortune had unbound his sensations; his own offspring stood before him clothed in trouble thick and dangerous.  His follies have entailed a life-rent of misery upon others; the fathomless depth of the future opens its yawning jaws to swallow up those upon whom the fondness of a father should have been bestowed for their moral and physical good.

As he sits contemplating this painful picture, Aunt Rachel enters the room to inquire if Lorenzo breakfasts with them.  “Why! old mas’r, what ail ye dis mornin’?  Ye don’t seems nohow.  Not a stripe like what ye was yesterday; somethin’ gi ’h de wrong way, and mas’r done know what i’ is,” she mutters to herself, looking seriously at Marston.

“Nothing! old bustler; nothing that concerns you.  Do not mention Lorenzo’s name again; he has gone on a journey.  Send my old faithful Daddy Bob to me.”  Rachel hastened to fulfil the command; soon brought the old servant to the door.  His countenance lighted up with smiles as he stood at the doorway, bowing and scraping, working his red cap in his hand.  There stood the old man, a picture of attachment.