She knew that it was not thus that slaves were ordinarily treated, and she knew the sinister meaning of this seeming kindness.
The young mulattress who led Cora to her apartment informed her that she had been appointed to wait upon Miss Leslie.
Cora smiled bitterly.
"Who told you to call me, Miss Leslie?" she asked.
"My master, Mr. Horton."
"Alas, my poor girl," answered Cora, "I am no longer Miss Leslie. I am a slave like yourself, with no name save that which my master chooses to give me. He has bought me; bought me at the auction yonder. Name, fame, happiness, honor, ay, and even soul—as he thinks—are his."
In the bitterness of her despair she buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud.
The mulattress was touched to the heart by this burst of grief.
"My dear mistress, pray do not weep thus," she said. "You will be no slave here, I know, for our master has had these beautiful rooms prepared on purpose for you, and you are to be treated as a queen."
"A queen!" said Cora, hysterically. "Yes, the empress of a profligate's hour of pleasure, to be trampled beneath his feet when the whim has passed. Go, my good girl; why should I distress you with my griefs. You can never understand my misery."