“O never fear, Mr. Roux,” she rejoined hurriedly. “I wouldn’t speak of it for the world.”
“In fact, madam, I believe I never told any one about it,” continued Roux, falteringly, “with the especial exception of Mr. Harrington and Miss Eastman. But I did git away from the southern country, way down in Louzeana, nine years ago. And I’ve got a brother still there, madam, leastways if he’s alive, wich is not certain, seein’ that he was with an uncommon bad master, madam—in fact, one of the worst sort of masters, madam.”
“Why didn’t he run away with you, Mr. Roux?” inquired Emily.
“He was ruther scared at the resks, madam,” replied Roux, “Says I, Ant’ny—his name was Ant’ny, madam—Ant’ny, says I, Master Lafitte—Lafitte was old Master’s name, madam—Master Lafitte’ll be the death of us, Ant’ny. We’d better try to git away to that Boston we’ve heerd tell of. Ant’ny, says I, I’ve got three pounds of kian, Ant’ny, says I”—
“Of what?” asked Emily.
“Of kian, madam—kian pepper, you know.”
“O, yes. Cayenne pepper.”
“Yes, madam. Wich we can leave on the track, Ant’ny, says I, and that’ll throw off the hounds, I’m a thinkin’.”
“The hounds!” ejaculated Emily, knitting her brow with horror, and looking at the still face of Muriel and then at Harrington.
“Certainly,” said the latter, tranquilly. “In this free and happy country, they hunt men and women with hounds. When hounds fail, they try Fugitive Slave Law Commissioners.”