The solemn light of dawn—­the angelic glory of the morning-star—­had looked in through the rude window of the shed where Tom was lying; and, as if descending on that star-beam, came the solemn words, “I am the root and offspring of David, and the bright and morning star.”  The mysterious warnings and intimations of Cassy, so far from discouraging his soul, in the end had roused it as with a heavenly call.  He did not know but that the day of his death was dawning in the sky; and his heart throbbed with solemn throes of joy and desire, as he thought that the wondrous all, of which he had often pondered,—­the great white throne, with its ever radiant rainbow; the white-robed multitude, with voices as many waters; the crowns, the palms, the harps,—­might all break upon his vision before that sun should set again.  And, therefore, without shuddering or trembling, he heard the voice of his persecutor, as he drew near.

“Well, my boy,” said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, “how do you find yourself?  Didn’t I tell yer I could larn yer a thing or two?  How do yer like it—­eh?  How did yer whaling agree with yer, Tom?  An’t quite so crank as ye was last night.  Ye couldn’t treat a poor sinner, now, to a bit of sermon, could ye,—­eh?”

Tom answered nothing.

“Get up, you beast!” said Legree, kicking him again.

This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint; and, as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally.

“What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom?  Cotched cold, may be, last night.”

Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting his master with a steady, unmoved front.

“The devil, you can!” said Legree, looking him over.  “I believe you haven’t got enough yet.  Now, Tom, get right down on yer knees and beg my pardon, for yer shines last night.”

Tom did not move.

“Down, you dog!” said Legree, striking him with his riding-whip.

“Mas’r Legree,” said Tom, “I can’t do it.  I did only what I thought was right.  I shall do just so again, if ever the time comes.  I never will do a cruel thing, come what may.”

“Yes, but ye don’t know what may come, Master Tom.  Ye think what you’ve got is something.  I tell you ’tan’t anything,—­nothing ’t all.  How would ye like to be tied to a tree, and have a slow fire lit up around ye;—­wouldn’t that be pleasant,—­eh, Tom?”

“Mas’r,” said Tom, “I know ye can do dreadful things; but,”—­he stretched himself upward and clasped his hands,—­“but, after ye’ve killed the body, there an’t no more ye can do.  And O, there’s all ETERNITY to come, after that!”

ETERNITY,—­the word thrilled through the black man’s soul with light and power, as he spoke; it thrilled through the sinner’s soul, too, like the bite of a scorpion.  Legree gnashed on him with his teeth, but rage kept him silent; and Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke, in a clear and cheerful voice,