“Colonel,” said Mr. Whipple, “is that true?”
“Sir!” “MR. BRICE!”
It did not seem to Stephen as if he was walking when he went toward the ground glass door. He opened it. There was Colonel Carvel seated on the bed, his goatee in his hand. And there was the Judge leaning forward from his hips, straight as a ramrod. Fire was darting from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Mr. Brice,” said he, “there is one question I always ask of those whom I employ. I omitted it in your case because I have known your father and your grandfather before you. What is your opinion, sir, on the subject of holding human beings in bondage?”
The answer was immediate,—likewise simple.
“I do not believe in it, Mr. Whipple.”
The Judge shot out of his chair like a long jack-in-the box, and towered to his full height.
“Mr. Brice, did you, or did you not, buy a woman at auction to-day?”
“I did, sir.”
Mr. Whipple literally staggered. But Stephen caught a glimpse of the Colonel's hand slipping from his chin cover his mouth.
“Good God, sir!” cried the Judge, and he sat down heavily. “You say that you are an Abolitionist?”