To look into her eyes, her face, and answer was a hard task, yet one I saw no way to evade.
"Yes; I am afraid it is true."
"And—and then Delia, the housekeeper, is actually my mother?"
"That is the story, as it has reached me."
She held tightly to the table for support, all the fresh color deserting her face, but the lips were firmly set and her head remained as proudly poised as ever above the round throat. Whatever might be the stain of alien blood in her veins, she was still a Beaucaire. Her eyes, filled with pain as they were, met mine unflinchingly.
"And—and knowing all this, convinced of its truth—that—that I am colored," she faltered, doubtfully. "You came here to help me?"
"I did; that can make no difference now."
"No difference! Why do you say that? Are you from the North, an Abolitionist?"
"No; at least I have never been called one or so thought of myself. I have never believed in slavery, yet I was born in a southern state. In this case I merely look upon you as a woman—as one of my own class. It—it does not seem as though I could ever consider you in any other way. You must believe this."
"Believe it! Why you and I are caught in the same net. I am a slave to be sold to the highest bidder; and you—you have killed a man to save me. Even if I was willing to remain and face my fate, I could not now, for that would mean you must suffer. And—and you have done this for me."