Cora was his.
Gilbert Margrave sprang forward, as if he would have struck the planter, but a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he was dragged back by a group of Americans.
"Better keep your dander down, stranger," one of the men whispered in his ear, "our folks are not over fond of your countrymen just now, and they wouldn't make much work of taking out their bowie knives. Let him have the gal. Was there ever such a noise about a handsome slave?"
Augustus Horton walked up to the place where Gilbert was standing, surrounded by these men.
"I've beaten you before to-day, Mr. Margrave," he said, with a sneer, "and I think I've had the pleasure of giving you a second licking this afternoon."
Again Gilbert would have sprung upon him, but again he was restrained by those about him.
"We've another duel to fight yet, Mr. Horton," said the Englishman, "and in that you may not come off so easily."
"We citizens of New Orleans don't fight about colored gals," answered the planter, turning upon his heel, contemptuously, and walking toward the spot where Cora stood, side by side with Toby and the other slaves.
Gilbert Margrave released himself from the arms of those who held him.
"I must follow him," he said, "I must speak to him. I pledge you my honor that I will attempt no violence, but I tell you I must speak to him. Life and death hang on this matter. How can I go back to Gerald Leslie, and tell the broken-hearted father that I was powerless to save his only child?"