“Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don’t know?” said Legree.

Tom was silent.

“Speak!” thundered Legree, striking him furiously.  “Do you know anything?”

“I know, Mas’r; but I can’t tell anything. I can die!”

Legree drew in a long breath; and, suppressing his rage, took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, said, in a terrible voice, “Hark ’e, Tom!—­ye think, ’cause I’ve let you off before, I don’t mean what I say; but, this time, I’ve made up my mind, and counted the cost.  You’ve always stood it out again’ me:  now, I’ll conquer ye, or kill ye!—­one or t’ other.  I’ll count every drop of blood there is in you, and take ’em, one by one, till ye give up!”

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, “Mas’r, if you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, I’d give ye my heart’s blood; and, if taking every drop of blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, I’d give ’em freely, as the Lord gave his for me.  O, Mas’r! don’t bring this great sin on your soul!  It will hurt you more than ’t will me!  Do the worst you can, my troubles’ll be over soon; but, if ye don’t repent, yours won’t never end!”

Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull of a tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment’s blank pause.  Legree stood aghast, and looked at Tom; and there was such a silence, that the tick of the old clock could be heard, measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of mercy and probation to that hardened heart.

It was but a moment.  There was one hesitating pause,—­one irresolute, relenting thrill,—­and the spirit of evil came back, with seven-fold vehemence; and Legree, foaming with rage, smote his victim to the ground.

Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and heart.  What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to hear.  What brother-man and brother-Christian must suffer, cannot be told us, even in our secret chamber, it so harrows the soul!  And yet, oh my country! these things are done under the shadow of thy laws!  O, Christ! thy church sees them, almost in silence!

But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an instrument of torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol of glory, honor, and immortal life; and, where His spirit is, neither degrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can make the Christian’s last struggle less than glorious.

Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal stripes?

Nay!  There stood by him ONE,—­seen by him alone,—­“like unto the Son of God.”

The tempter stood by him, too,—­blinded by furious, despotic will,—­every moment pressing him to shun that agony by the betrayal of the innocent.  But the brave, true heart was firm on the Eternal Rock.  Like his Master, he knew that, if he saved others, himself he could not save; nor could utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayers and holy trust.