Legree stood aghast and looked at Tom, and there was such a silence that the tick of the old clock could be heard measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.
It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause—one irresolute, relenting thrill—and the spirit of evil came
back with sevenfold vehemence, and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground.
* * * * *
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up through the avenue of China-trees fronting Legree’s house, and, throwing the reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby, the son of Tom’s former master.
He was soon introduced into the house, where he found Legree in the sitting-room.
Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospitality.
“I understand,” said the young man, “that you bought, in New Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father’s place, and I came to see if I couldn’t buy him back.”
Legree’s brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately: