"A humble suggestion for a coat-of-arms and escutcheon for the ennobled slave-trader and slave-killer, James Heinrich Sonnenkamp, formerly Banfield, from Louisiana—"
Sonnenkamp read only these words, and then stared up at the Prince, on whose face was a distorted smile.
"Give me your hand," said the Prince, "give me your hand and tell me, on your word of honor, that it is a lie. Give me your hand, and we will then crush the impudent scoundrels."
Sonnenkamp staggered back, as if a shot had struck him. What was all that he had enjoyed in life compared with the anguish of this moment?
He stretched out his hand doubled up, as if he wished to say: I can break you like a slender twig. But he opened his hand, and held it on high with the forefinger pointing to heaven.
Then suddenly there appeared in front of him a large powerful negro, rolling his eyes and showing his teeth.
With a cry more like that of a wild beast than of a human being, Sonnenkamp fell backwards upon his chair.
The figure in front of him gave a yell, and behind him yelled another—it was Adams, who had rushed in.
"Prince! master!" cried the negro, "this is the man who took me, who carried me off as a slave, and pitched me into the water. Let him only show his finger, it still bears the mark of my teeth. Let me have him, let me have him! I'll suck his blood for him, I'll choke him! Only let me have him a minute—let me have him! then kill me!"
Adams caught hold of Sonnenkamp's hand from behind, and clutched it as if he would crush it.