“Don’t know, mass’r. B’lieve she gone to de city. She leab last night in de night-time.”
“And—”
I hesitated a moment till my heart should still its heavy throbbings.
“Aurore?” I interrogated with an effort.
“’Rore gone too, mass’r;—she gone long wi’ Missa ’Génie.”
“Aurore gone!”
“Yes, mass’r, she gone; daat’s de troof.”
I was astounded by the information, as well as puzzled by this mysterious departure. Eugénie gone and in the night! Aurore gone with her! What could it mean? Whither had they gone?
My reiterated appeal to the black threw no light upon the subject. He was ignorant of all their movements,—ignorant of everything but what related to the negro quarter. He had heard that himself, his wife, his daughter,—“the leetle Chloe,”—with all their fellow-slaves, were to be carried down to the city, and to be sold in the slave-market by auction. They were to be taken the following day. They were already advertised. That was all he knew. No, not all,—one other piece of information he had in store for me. It was authentic: he had heard the “white folks” talk of it to one another:—Larkin, Gayarre, and a “negro-trader,” who was to be concerned in this sale. It regarded the quadroon. She was to be sold among the rest!
The blood boiled in my veins as the black imparted this information. It was authentic. Scipio’s statement of what he had heard, minutely detailed, bore the internal evidence of authenticity. I could not doubt the report. I felt the conviction that it was true.