“Twenty-five hundred dollars!” I again cried out, in as firm a voice as I could command.
“Twenty-five hundred dollars,” repeated the auctioneer, in his monotonous drawl; “twenty-five—six—you, sir? thank you! twenty-six hundred dollars for the Quadroon—twenty-six hundred!”
“Oh God! they will go above three thousand; if they do—”
“Twenty-seven hundred dollars!” bid the fop Marigny.
“Twenty-eight hundred!” from the old Marquis.
“Twenty-eight hundred and fifty!” assented the young merchant, Moreau.
“Nine!” nodded the tall dark man who had whispered to the auctioneer.
Twenty-nine hundred dollars bid—two thousand nine hundred.
“Three thousand!” I gasped out in despair.
It was my last bid. I could go no farther.