“I have just called my friend, who will give us the particulars about the constitutionality of the thing.  Here he is.  Mr. Scranton, ye see, knows all about such intricacies; he is an editor! formerly from the North,” one of the party is particular to explain, as he directs his conversation to Romescos.  That gentleman of slave-cloth only knows the part they call the rascality; he pays the gentlemen of the learned law profession to shuffle him out of all the legal intricacies that hang around his murderous deeds.  He seems revolving the thing over in his mind at the moment, makes no reply.  The gentleman turns to Mr. Scranton—­the same methodical gentleman we have described with the good Mrs. Rosebrook—­hopes he will be good enough to advise on the point in question.  Mr. Scranton sits in all the dignity of his serious philosophy, quite unmoved; his mind is nearly distracted about all that is constitutionally right or constitutionally wrong.  He is bound to his own ways of thinking, and would suffer martyrdom before his own conscientious scruples would allow him to acknowledge a right superior to that constitution.  As for the humanity! that has nothing to do with the constitution, nothing to do with the laws of the land, nothing to do with popular government,—­nothing to do with anything, and never should be taken into consideration when the point at issue involved negro property.  The schedule of humanity would be a poor account at one’s banker’s.  Mr. Scranton begins to smooth his face, which seems to elongate like a wet moon.  “The question is, as I understand it, gentlemen, how far the law will give you a right to convict and sell the woman in the absence of papers and against the assertions of her owner, that she is free?  Now, gentlemen, in the absence of my law books, and without the least scruple that I am legally right, for I’m seldom legally wrong, having been many years secretary to a senator in Congress who made it my particular duty to keep him posted on all points of the constitution—­he drawls out with the serious complacency of a London beggar—­I will just say that, whatever is legal must be just.  Laws are always founded in justice—­that’s logical, you see,—­and I always maintained it long ’afore I come south, long ’afore I knowed a thing about ‘nigger law.’  The point, thus far, you see, gentlemen, I’ve settled.  Now then!” Mr. Scranton rests his elbow on the table, makes many legal gesticulations with his finger; he, however, disclaims all and every connection with the legal body, inasmuch as its members have sunk very much in the scale of character, and will require a deal of purifying ere he can call them brothers; but he knows a thing or two of constitutional law, and thus proceeds:  “’Tain’t a whit of matter about the woman, barring the dockerment’s all right.  You only want to prove that Marston bought her, that’s all!  As for the young scraps, why—­supposing they are his-that won’t make a bit of difference; they are property