Randolph saw the determination which was written on his face, and saw the looks and heard the yells of the thirty negroes; and then, without a word, felled old Royal to the floor. One blow of his right hand, planted on the negro's breast, struck him down like an ox under the butcher's ax. When old Royal, mad with rage, rose to his feet again, Randolph had disappeared—disappeared with his brother, whom he bore in his arms to upper air.
"Let's after um," shouted the foremost of the negroes.
Old Royal stepped to the door, (which Randolph had closed after him,) but stopped abruptly on the threshold, as if arrested by a sudden thought.
"Dis nigga meet you 'gin, massa 'Dolph," he muttered, and then, pointing to something which was folded up in one corner, he said, "Dar's game fur you niggas!"
He pointed to the form of poor Bloodhound, who, tied and gagged, lay helpless and groaning on the floor.
It was, perhaps, the most remarkable hour in Bloodhound's life. His hands and feet tightly bound, a coarse handkerchief wound over his mouth, and tied behind his neck, he was deprived of the power of speech or motion. But the power of vision remained. His small gray eyes twinkled fearfully, as he beheld the faces of the thirty negroes—faces that were convulsed with rage, resembling not so much the visages of men as of devils. And he could also hear. He heard the yell from thirty throats, a yell which was chorused with certain words, mingling his own name with an emphatic desire for his blood—his life.
Bloodhound was an old man; his hair was gray with the snows of sixty years, spent in the practice of all the virtues; but Bloodhound felt a peculiar sensation gather about his heart, at this most remarkable moment of his life.
"Bring forrad de pris'ner," said old Royal, resuming his seat by the packing-box. "Put 'um on him feet. Take de kankercher from him jaw."
He was obeyed. Bloodhound stood erect in the center of the group, his hands and feet tied, but his tongue free. The light, uplifted in the hand of a brawny negro, fell fully upon his corded face, with its gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and wide mouth. Bloodhound's hands shook,—not with cold, for the place was suffocatingly warm,—and Bloodhound trembled in every atom of his short thick-set body. Glancing before him, then to the right and left, and then backward over each shoulder, he saw black faces everywhere, and black hands grasping sharp knives, confronted him at every turn.
"You am a berry handsum man," said old Royal, encouragingly. "Jist look at um, niggas. Do you know de pris'ner?"