"To business," said old Royal, surveying the motley crowd. "I hab come to visit you to-night by d'rection ob somebody dat you don't know. It am ob de last importance dat you all get yesselves out o' dis town to Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you. Darfore I hab provided you wid dem revolvers,"—he pointed to the pistols, "and derfore I am here, to send you on yer ways, for de kidnappers am about."
"Oh, dam de kidnappers!" was the emphatic remark of a dark gentleman; and it was chorused by the congress unanimously.
"It am berry easy to say 'dam de kidnappers,'—berry easy to say dam—dam's a berry short word; but s'pose de kidnapper hab you, and tie you, and take you down south—eh, nigga? w'at den?"
But before the gentlemen could reply to this pointed question of old Royal's, a circumstance took place which put an entire new face upon the state of affairs.
The door was burst open, and two persons tumbled into the room, heels over head. Descending the stairs in the darkness, these persons had missed their footing, and fell. The door gave way before their united weight, and they rolled into the room in a style more forcible than graceful.
When these persons recovered themselves and rose to their feet, they found themselves encircled by some thirty uplifted knives,—every knife grasped by the hand of a brawny negro. And the cry which greeted them was by no means pleasant to hear:—
"Death to the kidnappers!"
"We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of the persons—our old friend Bloodhound.
"Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the damned nigger that comes near me," cried the other person, who was none other than our friend Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, South Carolina.
The cloak had fallen from his shoulders, the cap from his brow. He stood erect, his tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on the breast, dilating in every muscle. His face, with its large eyes and bushy whiskers—a face by no means unhandsome, as regards mere animal beauty—was convulsed with rage. And even as he started to his feet, he drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay, the very picture of ferocity and desperation. While his right hand grasped the revolver, his left hand flourished a bowie-knife. Harry Royalton was dangerous.