"No, no, no!" cried the captive, his eyes turned appealingly to Robert Stevens. "You take her; you take her. Go with him, Cora."
The child sprang to the side of Robert Stevens, for already she had come to dread the man who was her father's master. Hull's face was black with rage. He bit his lips, but said nothing. With his slave, he hurried home.
The name of the slave was George Waters, and he was soon to learn the weight of a master's hand.
Thomas Hull was the owner of negro slaves, as well as white indented servants, and he made no distinction between them. George Waters, proud, noble as he was, was set to work with the filthy negroes in the tobacco fields. The half-savage barbarians, with their ignorance and naturally low instincts, were intended to humiliate the refined gentleman.
"You is one of us," said a negro. "What am your name?"
"George Waters."
"George—George, dat am my name, too," said the negro, leaning on his hoe. "D'ye suppose we is brudders?"
"No."
"Well, why is we bofe called George?"
"I don't know."