“Man!” thundered Harrington, “you came here to rob your fellow of all God gave him! You dared to risk your life among these plundered and trampled poor—despoiled and outraged daily by you and such as you! Are you ready to die?”
Silent, amidst the ominous gathering murmurs and inarticulate shrill sounds, the slaveholder stood, with his livid, ghastly, sweat-bedabbled face turned toward Harrington’s. Suddenly the surging ocean swelled and tossed in wild confusion, and sinking into a pouring rush of running feet, rose again in a savage and appalling roar.
“Hark to the coming of your doom!” cried Harrington, his voice pealing up amidst the din, and his arms uplifted like a prophet of ruin. “Hark to the hoarse blood-roar! Hark to the roar of St. Domingo! They come, the people you have trodden upon, they come to tear you limb from limb! In five minutes your head will roll in that street—your body be trampled into bloody mire!”
“My God!” shrieked the trembling wretch, “am I to die here like a rat! Let me go—let me fight my way through the hounds!”
Brandishing the knife, he rushed with forlorn bravery for the door.
“Back!” thundered Harrington. “That way leads to certain death!”
He sprang upon him as he spoke, wrested the knife from his hand, and hurling it across the room, flung him back to the wall. The wretched man covered his face with his hands!
“They come! they are here!” cried Harrington.
He sprang to the open door, and stood on the threshold, while amidst a tumbling sea of shouts and yells, came a tumultuous rush of feet on the wooden stairs.