'He am kind to me, sar; he orter be,' said the negro, the savage expression coming again into his eyes. For a moment he hesitated; then, taking a step toward me, he placed his face down to mine, and hissed out these words, every syllable seeming to come from the very bottom of his being. 'I tell you he orter be, sar, FUR I AM HIS OWN FATHER'S SON!'
'Your brother!' I exclaimed, springing to my feet, and looking at him in blank amazement. 'It can't be true.'
'It am true, sar—as true as there's a hell! His father had my mother: when he got tired of her, he sold her Souf. I was too young den eben to know her!'
'This is horrible, too horrible!' I said.
'It am slavery, sar! Shouldn't we be contented?' replied the negro with a grim smile. Drawing, then, a large spring-knife from his pocket, he waved it above his head, adding: 'Ef I had all de white race dar—right dar under dat knife, don't yer tink I'd take all dar lives—all at one blow—to be FREE!'
'And yet you refused to run away when the Abolitionists tempted you, at the North. Why didn't you go then?'
''Cause I had promised, massa.'
'Promised the Colonel before you went?'
'No, sar, he neber axed me; but I can't tell you no more. P'raps Scipio will, ef you ax him.'
'Oh! I see; you're in that league, of which Scip is a leader. You'll get into trouble, sure,' I replied, in a quick, decided tone, which startled him.