“Why, Roxy, what do you mean?”
She rose, and gloomed above him like a Fate.
“I means dis—en it’s de Lord’s truth. You ain’t no more kin to ole Marse Driscoll den I is!—dat’s what I means!” and her eyes flamed with triumph.
“What!”
“Yassir, en dat ain’t all! You’s a nigger!—bawn a nigger en a slave!—en you’s a nigger en a slave dis minute; en if I opens my mouf ole Marse Driscoll’ll sell you down de river befo’ you is two days older den what you is now!”
“It’s a thundering lie, you miserable old blatherskite!”
“It ain’t no lie, nuther. It’s jes de truth, en nothin’ but de truth, so he’p me. Yassir—you’s my son—”
“You devil!”
“En dat po’ boy dat you’s be’n a-kickin’ en a-cuffin’ to-day is Percy Driscoll’s son en yo’ marster—”
“You beast!”