"Your uncle, I fear, was left at the last wood-yard; so I heard my friend De Guy say."
Emily felt herself the victim of a plot, and, rousing all her energies, she said,
"I see it all. The machinations of a villain—for such you are—shall be foiled."
"Miss Dumont," said Maxwell, his passions roused by the severity of her epithet, "do you forget your condition? You are a slave! Your supposed uncle is not here. You have no free papers, and are liable to be committed to the next jail."
"But I am not without a friend who is able to protect me," said Emily, with spirit, as she saw Henry Carroll ascend to the deck upon which they stood.
"Your friend is helpless. Another word, and I will proclaim your condition," and he rudely seized her by the arm. "Your friend cannot help you. He has not your free papers."
"But he has a strong arm!" shouted Henry Carroll, as with a single blow he struck the attorney to the deck.
"This way, Emily," said he to the weeping girl, who clung tremblingly to him; "you are safe now."
Emily was conducted by the gallant arm which had protected her from we know not what indignity. She felt secure in his presence from further molestation, and his soothing words and hopeful promises did much to restore her.
Maxwell soon recovered from the effects of the blow he had received, and, boiling with passion, swore vengeance upon the man who had interrupted him. But his passion was of short duration, and was succeeded by sober reflections upon the "position of his case." Emily Dumont was not of that class of women with whom he was accustomed to deal. He had found in her an element with which he had not before been conversant,—of which, indeed, he had read in books of poetry, but did not believe it existed in the material world.