“I can’t stop to parley with you. Produce the man instantly.”
“I shall do no such thing.”
Vance turned to an orderly, and said, “Arrest this man.” At once the deputy was seized on either side by two soldiers. “Now, sir,” said Vance, cocking his pistol and taking out his watch, “Produce Antoine Lafour in five minutes, or I will shoot you dead.”
The bloodhound, who had been scenting with curious nose the man’s person, now seconded the menace by a savage growl, which seemed to have more effect even than the pistol, for the deputy, turning to one of the men in attendance, said sulkily, “Bring out the nigger, and be quick about it.”
In three minutes Antoine appeared, and the dog leaped bodily into his arms, the negro talking to him much as he would to a human being. “I knowed you’d do it, ole feller! Thar! Down! Down, I say, ole Vic! It takes you,—don’t it? Down! Behave yourself afore folk. Why, Peek, is this you?”
“Yes, Antoine, and this is Mr. Vance, and here’s the old flag, and you’re no longer a slave.”
“What? I no longer a— No! Say them words agin, Peek! Free? Owner of my own flesh an’ blood? Dis arm mine? Dis head mine? Bress de Lord, Peek! Bress him for all his mercies! Amen! Hallelujah!”
The released negro could not forego a few wild antics expressive of his rapture. Peek checked him, and bade him remember the company he was in; and Antoine bowed to Vance and said: “’Scuze me, Kunnle. I don’t perfess to be sich a high-tone gemmleman as Peek here, but—”
“Stop!” cried Peek; “where did you get those last words?”
“What words?” asked Antoine, showing the whites of his eyes with an expression of concern at Peek’s suddenly serious manner.