“John,” said Muriel, “listen to me.”
He started from his lethargy of sorrow, and gazed into her face. She was pale, collected, calm; her eyes firm and clear, and her voice and manner full of quiet energy.
“John,” she pursued, “we must not waste these hours. All is not lost yet. We have the clues to this infamy in our hands. That man has no doubt been taken on board the Soliman. You must at once procure a writ of habeas corpus and get”—
She paused, arrested by the strange and ghastly smile that changed his countenance.
“I have thought of it,” he said. “If it were not for this Fugitive Slave Law, we might have a chance of success. But see—perjury would be nothing to the men that could do this deed. When the writ is served on them, they will swear that the man is not in their possession. Then a warrant will be procured for his arrest, and after a pretended search, he will be found, dragged before a commissioner, and sent into slavery. And if I get a writ, who will I get to serve it? From the sheriff to the lowest catchpoll is there one of them that can be depended upon to do his duty in such a case? Justice is drugged with slavery. Law winks at kidnapping.”
She looked at him with a still face, touched for a moment by what he said, then refluent to its purpose.
“It must be tried, nevertheless,” she said firmly. “You yourself, John, can serve the writ, or accompany the officer.”
He gazed at her with eyes that filled with tears, as they wandered from her countenance to her mother’s. Mrs. Eastman shrank and covered her face with her hands. In an instant Muriel comprehended the deeper reason which had made him hopeless of a rescue, and with a feeling as nearly like despairing agony as her nature, organized for faith and hope and joy, could feel, she sank back in her chair.
“Muriel,” said he, in a solemn voice, “I have thought of all, and I see no way open to us. Under other circumstances, I would get the writ, and though he probably could not be found, endeavor to save this man. But I cannot take the first step without involving Lemuel Atkins. Can I do it? Think how mother feels this already. Think how she would feel it then. Think of the position we are in.”
“Tell me, John, tell me,” faltered Mrs. Eastman, weeping, “tell me what I ought to do. Ought I to have this made public? What would you do if he were your brother, as he is mine?”