"I am in the dark, I know not what you mean. True, true, the face portrayed in miniature does, somewhat, resemble our mother's portrait, but—"
"That miniature, Esther, is the portrait of the Head of our Family. That man,—" again he pronounced the name,—"was the father of our mother. We are his grandchildren, my sister."
Esther suffered the miniature to fall from her hand. She sank back into a chair.
For a few moments, there was a death-like pause, unbroken by a single word.
"The grandchildren of —— ——!" echoed Esther, at length. "You cannot mean it, Randolph?"
Randolph bent his head until his lips well-nigh touched his sister's ear. At the same moment he clasped her hard with a painful pressure. The words which he then uttered were uttered in a whisper, but every word penetrated the soul of the listener.
"Esther, we are the grandchildren of that man whose name is on the lips of the civilized world. Our mother was his child. His blood flows in our veins. We are of his race; his features may be traced in your countenance and in mine. Now let them cut and hack and maim us: let them lash us at the whipping-post, or sell us in the slave mart. At every blow of the lash, we can exclaim, 'Lash on! lash on! But remember, you are inflicting this torture upon no common slaves; for your whip at every blow is stained with the blood of —— ——. These slaves whom you lash are his grandchildren!'"
He paused, overcome by the violence of his emotion. In a moment he resumed:
"And it is because I am his grandson, that I will not exile myself from this land, which was his birthplace as it is mine. Yes, I cannot exile myself, for the reason that my grandfather left to my hands the fulfillment of an awful trust—of a work which, well fulfilled, will secure the happiness of all the races who people the American continent. I may become a suicide, but an exile,—never!"
"But our mother, was the daughter of Colonel Rawden. So the rumor ran, and so you stated before the Court of Ten Millions."