The trouble exists in making the man merchandise, reducing him to an abject being, without the protection of common law.  Presently the tears began to flow down Marston’s cheeks, as he unbuttoned his shirt-collar with an air of restlessness, approached a desk that stood in one corner of the room, and drew from it a somewhat defaced bill of sale.  There was something connected with that bit of paper, which, apart from anything else, seemed to harass him most.  “But a minute before you entered I looked upon that paper,” he spoke, throwing it upon the table, “and thought how much trouble it had brought me, how through it I had left a curse upon innocent life.  I paid fifteen hundred dollars for the souls and bodies of those two women, creatures of sense, delicacy, and tenderness.  But I am not a bad man, after all.  No, there are worse men than me in the world.”

“Gather, gather, ye incubus of misfortune, bearing to me the light of heaven, with which to see my sins.  May it come to turn my heart in the right way, to seek its retribution on the wrong!” Thus concluding, Marston covers his face in his hands, and for several minutes weeps like a child.  Again rising from his seat, he throws the paper on a table near an open window, and himself upon a couch near by.

Maxwell attempts to quiet him by drawing his attention from the subject.  There is little use, however,—­it is a terrible conflict,—­the conflict of conscience awakening to a sense of its errors; the fate of regrets when it is too late to make amends.

While this was going on, a brawny hand reached into the window, and quickly withdrew the paper from the table.  Neither observed it.

And at the moment, Marston ejaculated, “I will!  I will! let it cost what it may.  I will do justice to Clotilda and her child,—­to Ellen and her child; I will free them, send them into a free country to be educated.”  In his excitement he forgot the bill of sale.

“Like enough you will!” responds a gruff voice; and a loud rap at the hall-door followed.  Dandy was summoned, opened the door, bowed Romescos into the room.  He pretends to be under the influence of liquor, which he hopes will excuse his extraordinary familiarity at such a late hour.  Touching the hilt of his knife, he swaggers into the presence of Marston, looks at him fixedly, impertinently demands something to drink.  He cares not what it be, waits for no ceremony, tips the decanter, gulps his glass, and deliberately takes a seat.

The reader will perhaps detect the object of his presence; but, beyond that, there is something deep and desperate in the appearance of the man, rendering his familiarity exceedingly disagreeable.  That he should present himself at such an untimely hour was strange, beyond Marston’s comprehension.  It was, indeed, most inopportune; but knowing him, he feared him.  He could not treat him with indifference,—­there was his connection with Graspum, his power over the poor servile whites; he must be courteous-so, summoning his suavity, he orders Dandy to wait upon him.