"Linkum!" said Flor. "Who dat ar? Some o' yer poor w'ite trash? Mas'r Henry doan' say so!"
"W'a' 's de matter wid dat ar boy Sarp, Zoë?" recommenced Flor, after a pause. "Mus' hab wanted suffin,—powerful,—to lib in de swamp, hab de dogs after him, an' a bullet troo de head mos' likely."
"Jus' dat. Wanted him freedom," said Zoë suddenly, with crackling stress, her eyes getting angry in their fervor, as she went on. "Wanted him body for him own. Tired o' usin' 'noder man's eyes, 'noder man's han's. Wanted him han's him own, wanted him heart him own! Had n' no breff to breathe 'cep' w'at Mas'r Henry gib out. Di'n' t'ink no t'oughts but Mas'r Henry's. Wanted him wife some day to hisse'f, wanted him chillen for him own property. Wanted to call no man mas'r but de Lord in heaben!"
"Wy, Maum Zoë, how you talk! Sarp had n' no wife."
"Neber would, w'ile he wor a slave."
"Hist now, Zoë!" said the old woman.
"I jus' done b'lieve you's a bobolitionist!" said Flor, with wide eyes and a battery of nods.
"No 'casion, no 'casion," said Zoë, with the deep inner chuckle again. "We's done 'bolished,—dat's w'at we is! We's a free people now. No more work for de 'bominationists!" And on the point of uncontrollable hilarity, she checked herself with the dignity becoming her new position. "You's your own nigger now, Salome," said she.
"We? No, t'ank you. I 'longs to Miss Emma."
"You haan' no understandin' for liberty, chil'. Seems ef 'twas like religion"——