His master smiled, then bit his mustache gravely.
“But, Micajah, you must command respect—command it, and you will get it.”
“I done ’mand hit, Ole Marse,” said Micajah, pitifully, “but I ’mands hit lack er nigger, er big fool nigger, an’ hit hain’t done no good. Gittin’ freedom on de outside don’ make freedom on de inside, Ole Marse. I’s ’bleeged ter you, Ole Marse, ’deed I is, but I wants you ter take hit back. I’s nuffin but er fool nigger, Ole Marse, an’ ’fore Gord I hain’t gwine cut up no mo’! I’se got all I want ’dout freedom, an’ I gwine be thankful fur hit!”
Micajah paused expectantly; there was a silence, which was broken by the master’s firm voice.
“I am a man of my word, Micajah. I have promised you a month of freedom, and you have accepted it; I cannot take it back until the time is out. Stop your foolishness, and go and make the best of it.” And Ole Marse rode away.
Micajah looked long and earnestly into the cloud of dust he left behind. The condition was desperate; something must be done.
“HE COLLARED HIS ASTONISHED LITTLE NIGGER”
Between the gate and the Quarters he collared his astonished little nigger with no uncertain gesture, and led him across the field towards the river, and when Micajah returned he was alone. Spying the palm-leaf fan, the emblem of his freedom and his misery, on the floor of the cabin, where it had dropped from the hand of the rebellious Amaziah, he silently tore it into shreds and tossed them from him with a contemptuous grunt.