There came a day when he felt he could stand it no longer.
He took a walk; he knew not where it led to. Possibly it led nowhere. Yet he felt he must walk, not in the direction he was accustomed to go (to the river, where he had wandered many a night, and observed the mighty ocean liners, receiving and discharging their cargoes; or where, on the deck of packets, he listened to steam calliopes), but in a direction he had never gone before.
It was in one of the creole city's narrow ways, where he presently found himself. Sidney strolled along, oblivious to all whereabouts, and found that this part of the city was much unlike any part he had known.
He felt as one in a strange land, to be sure. On all sides he was greeted by little low houses, opening into the narrow streets. Peculiar people moved about and spoke in a tongue he could not understand, but he knew it was creole. They were quieter than those in the neighborhood he lived, and he understood. They were all Catholics, he had been told, and "obeyed" the priest. He was glad of it. He wished all his race would obey something other than their animal instincts.
He paused at last before a statue in a small square. Four rows of buildings faced it on that many sides. Only one side confronted him, however, and to this he finally went. He stopped before a large church, a cathedral, and read that it had been built almost two hundred years before. Next to the church, was the museum. Curious, and for a time forgetting his troubles, he wandered in. He went up a winding stairway to the second floor. As he passed upward, great oil paintings greeted him. All old, this he saw; for, under many were inscriptions, showing that many had been painted more than a hundred years ago. While he had never studied this art, he readily appreciated that many were wonderful. Elegant ladies gazed at him from the frames, their eyes following him strangely out of sight; for, no matter where he stood, whether in front or from either side, they seemed to scrutinize him.
He passed into the museum and began to examine, through the glass cases, relics of another day. That the city was old was shown by the age of papers and documents of numerous mention. Pictures of fond old mammies, gray and white-haired old uncles, grand dames (such as Dixie had seen), caught his attention everywhere.
An old, old man, scion of a decayed aristocracy, sat in a chair within this art room, and Sidney approached him. "Have you," said he, "any record of the sale of slaves, in this museum?" The other pointed to a room Wyeth had not observed, but spoke no word.
Wyeth wandered into it, and his gaze immediately encountered what he was curious to see.
"Know all men by these presents:
"Being the last will and testament of Joan Becuare.