“He’s most gone, Mas’r,” said
Sambo, touched, in spite of himself, by the patience
of his victim.
“Pay away, till he gives up! Give it to
him!—give it to him!” shouted Legree.
“I’ll take every drop of blood he has,
unless he confesses!”
Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master.
“Ye poor miserable critter!” he said,
“there ain’t no more ye can do! I
forgive ye, with all my soul!” and he fainted
entirely away.
“I b’lieve, my soul, he’s done for,
finally,” said Legree, stepping forward, to
look at him. “Yes, he is! Well, his
mouth’s shut up, at last,—that’s
one comfort!”
Yes, Legree; but who shall shut up that voice in thy
soul? that soul, past repentance, past prayer, past
hope, in whom the fire that never shall be quenched
is already burning!
Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words
and pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the
imbruted blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty
upon him; and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took
him down, and, in their ignorance, sought to call him
back to life,—as if that were any
favor to him.
“Sartin, we ‘s been doin’ a drefful
wicked thing!” said Sambo; “hopes Mas’r’ll
have to ’count for it, and not we.”
They washed his wounds,—they provided a
rude bed, of some refuse cotton, for him to lie down
on; and one of them, stealing up to the house, begged
a drink of brandy of Legree, pretending that he was
tired, and wanted it for himself. He brought
it back, and poured it down Tom’s throat.
“O, Tom!” said Quimbo, “we’s
been awful wicked to ye!”
“I forgive ye, with all my heart!” said
Tom, faintly.
“O, Tom! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow?”
said Sambo;—“Jesus, that’s
been a standin’ by you so, all this night!—Who
is he?”
The word roused the failing, fainting spirit.
He poured forth a few energetic sentences of that
wondrous One,—his life, his death, his
everlasting presence, and power to save.
They wept,—both the two savage men.
“Why didn’t I never hear this before?”
said Sambo; “but I do believe!—I
can’t help it! Lord Jesus, have mercy on
us!”
“Poor critters!” said Tom, “I’d
be willing to bar’ all I have, if it’ll
only bring ye to Christ! O, Lord! give me these
two more souls, I pray!”
That prayer was answered!
The Young Master
Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up
through the avenue of China trees, and, throwing the
reins hastily on the horse’s neck, sprang out
and inquired for the owner of the place.
It was George Shelby; and, to show how he came to
be there, we must go back in our story.
The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by
some unfortunate accident, been detained, for a month
or two, at some remote post-office, before it reached
its destination; and, of course, before it was received,
Tom was already lost to view among the distant swamps
of the Red river.
