"I'm not a brother now,—only a slave,—it was as a brother, last night, I spared and saved you,—now I'm only a slave, a negro! But as a slave and negro, I am choking you to death!"
Harry might as well have battled with a thunderbolt. Randolph, with the madman's fire in his eyes, hears him to the floor, puts his knee upon his breast, and tightens his clutch upon his throat. And as a gurgling noise sounded in the throat of the poor wretch, Randolph bent his face nearer to him, and (to use an all-expressive Scotch word) glowered upon him with those madman's eyes.
"This time there must be no mistake, brother. The world is large enough for many millions of people, but not large enough for us two. You must go, Harry,—master! You are going! Go and tell your father and mine how you treated the children of Herodia! Go!"
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.
It was the night of December the twenty-fifth, 1844.
The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was dark as a tomb. The shutters were closed, and crape fluttered on the door.
Within,—in the range of parlors, where, last night, Eugene kissed good-bye on the lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he left for Boston,—where, not an hour after, Beverly Barron came and folded the young wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her home to a haunt of shame,—within a single light is burning. One light alone, in the vast mansion, from foundation to roof.
It is a wax candle, placed in the front parlor, on a marble table, between a sofa and mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the floor.