Old Royalton clenched the knife with his left hand, and placed its point against Harry's breast.
"You am bound for glory, massa—" and a negro held a candle over Harry's face, as old Royal spoke.
At this critical moment, even as Harry's life hung on a thread, a violent knocking was heard at the door, and a voice resounded through its panels—
"Old Royal, old Royal, I say! Let me in, quick! quick!"
"Open the door, nigga. It's massa Harry's brack brudder. Let um in, so he can see his brudder bound for glory!"
The door was opened, and Randolph, pale as death, came rushing to the light. Wrapped in the cloak, which concealed his pistols and knives, and which hung about his tall form in heavy folds, he advanced with a footstep at once trembling and eager.
His pale face was stamped with hatred; his blue eyes shone with vengeance, as he at a glance beheld the pitiful condition of his brother.
"Soh, brother of mine, we have met again!" he cried, in a voice which was hoarse and deep with the thirst of vengeance.
"Why, he's whitaw dan his white brudder!" cried the negro who held the light.
"Release him," cried Randolph—"Release him, I say! Tie that fellow there;" he touched Bloodhound with his foot; "close the door. You'll see a fight worth seeing; a fight between the master and slave, between brother and brother. Do you hear me, Royal? Let him get up,—"