His entrance produced a buzz, and set the various groups in motion. I could hear the phrases, “Here he comes!” “Yon’s him!” “Here comes the major!”
This was not needed to proclaim to all present, who was the individual in the green “shad-belly.” The beautiful dome of Saint Charles itself was not better known to the citizens of New Orleans than was Major B—, the celebrated auctioneer.
In another minute, the bright bland face of the major appeared above the rostrum. A few smart raps of his hammer commanded silence, and the sale began.
Scipio was ordered first upon the block. The crowd of intended bidders pressed around him, poked their fingers between his ribs, felt his limbs as if he had been a fat ox, opened his mouth and examined his teeth as if he had been a horse, and then bid for him just like he had been one or the other.
Under other circumstances I could have felt compassion for the poor fellow; but my heart was too full—there was no room in it for Scipio; and I averted my face from the disgusting spectacle.
Chapter Sixty.
The Slave-Mart.
I once more fixed my eyes upon the entrance, scrutinising every form that passed in. As yet no appearance of D’Hauteville! Surely he would soon arrive. He said at twelve o’clock. It was now one, and still he had not come.