But what was I to think of Arens Ringgold, the leader in this designed assassination? A man of some education—my equal in social rank—a gentleman!
O Arens Ringgold—Arens Ringgold! How was I to explain it? How account for conduct so atrocious, so fiendish?
I knew that this young man liked me but little—of late less than ever. I knew the cause too. I stood in the way of his relations with my sister—at least so thought he. And he had reason; for, since my father’s death, I had spoken more freely of family affairs. I had openly declared that, with my consent, he should never be my brother; and this declaration had reached him. I could easily believe, therefore, that he was angry with me; but anger that would impel a man to such demoniac purpose, I could not comprehend.
And what meant those half-heard phrases—“one that stands in our way,” “mother easily consent,” “master of the plantation,” coupled with the names of Viola and my sister? What meant they?
I could give them but one, and that a terrible interpretation—too fearful to dwell upon.
I could scarcely credit my senses, scarcely believe that I was not labouring under some horrid hallucination, some confusion of the brain produced by my having been en rapport with the maniac!
But no; the moon had been over them—my eyes open upon them—my ears open, and could not have deceived me. I saw what they did—I heard what they said. They designed to kill me!
“Ho, ho, young mico, you may come down. The honowaw-hulwa (bad men) are gone. Hinklas! Come down, pretty mico—down, down, down!”
I hastened to obey, and stood once more in the presence of the mad queen.
“Now you believe Haj-Ewa? Have an enemy, young mico? Ho—four enemies. Your life in danger? Ho? ho?”