“Nothin’, suh, cep’n dat I did n’ take de whip.”

“The law, largely, I think, in view of the peculiar circumstances of your unfortunate race, has vested a large discretion in courts as to the extent of the punishment for offenses of this kind.  Taking your case as a whole, I am convinced that it is one which, for the sake of the example, deserves a severe punishment.  Nevertheless, I do not feel disposed to give you the full extent of the law, which would be twenty years in the penitentiary,[1] but, considering the fact that you have a family, and have heretofore borne a good reputation in the community, I will impose upon you the light sentence of imprisonment for five years in the penitentiary at hard labor.  And I hope that this will be a warning to you and others who may be similarly disposed, and that after your sentence has expired you may lead the life of a law-abiding citizen.”

[Footnote 1:  There are no degrees of larceny in North Carolina, and the penalty for any offense lies in the discretion of the judge, to the limit of twenty years.]

“O Ben!  O my husband!  O God!” moaned the poor wife, and tried to press forward to her husband’s side.

“Keep back, Nancy, keep back,” said the jailer.  “You can see him in jail.”

Several people were looking at Ben’s face.  There was one flash of despair, and then nothing but a stony blank, behind which he masked his real feelings, whatever they were.

Human character is a compound of tendencies inherited and habits acquired.  In the anxiety, the fear of disgrace, spoke the nineteenth century civilization with which Ben Davis had been more or less closely in touch during twenty years of slavery and fifteen years of freedom.  In the stolidity with which he received this sentence for a crime which he had not committed, spoke who knows what trait of inherited savagery?  For stoicism is a savage virtue.

IV

One morning in June, five years later, a black man limped slowly along the old Lumberton plank road; a tall man, whose bowed shoulders made him seem shorter than he was, and a face from which it was difficult to guess his years, for in it the wrinkles and flabbiness of age were found side by side with firm white teeth, and eyes not sunken,—­eyes bloodshot, and burning with something, either fever or passion.  Though he limped painfully with one foot, the other hit the ground impatiently, like the good horse in a poorly matched team.  As he walked along, he was talking to himself:——­

“I wonder what dey ’ll do w’en I git back?  I wonder how Nancy ’s s’ported the fambly all dese years?  Tuck in washin’, I s’ppose,—­she was a monst’us good washer an’ ironer.  I wonder ef de chillun ’ll be too proud ter reco’nize deir daddy come back f’um de penetenchy?  I ‘spec’ Billy must be a big boy by dis time.  He won’ b’lieve his daddy ever stole anything.  I ‘m gwine ter slip roun’ an’ s’prise ’em.”