When he came to the garden-wall, he noticed some large letters, and riding nearer, he saw written in many different ways: Slave-trader! Slave-murderer! An artist, with no very practised hand, had drawn the picture of a gallows on which a figure was hanging with protruding tongue, and on the tongue was the word Slave-trader! He ordered the porter to keep better watch, and to shoot down the insolent fellows who should do any such thing.
The porter said:—
"I'll not shoot; I shall leave the service on St. Martin's day, anyhow."
Sonnenkamp rode back toward the green cottage; he wanted to take away his children, and he wanted to tell the Professorin not to give any more charity to the rabble that dared to write such words on the white wall of his garden. But he turned about again. The best way would be to take no notice of it.
Panting with rage he returned to his room, and he wondered at the thought which came over him, that this house was his own no longer; every one in the neighborhood was thronging in, scoffing, pitying, and he was living, as it were, in the street, for every one was speaking about him, and he could not help himself. He stamped his foot on the floor.
"Here 'tis! You wanted honor,—you wanted to be talked about, and now they do talk,—but how? I despise the whole of you!" he exclaimed.
He turned over all manner of plans in his mind, how he should get the better of the world. But what was there that he could do? He could not hit upon anything.
CHAPTER X.
ROLAND'S MOAN.
Roland and Manna sat in the library, holding each other's hand; they were like two children who had taken refuge from the storm in a strange hut. For a long time they were unable to speak. Manna was the first to gain composure, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness, passing her hand over her brother's face, she said:—