‘Fire away,’ said the Colonel, with evident chagrin.  ’This is a nigger trial; if you want to screen the d——­ hound you can do it.’

’I dusn’t want to screed him, massa, but I’se bery ole and got soon to gwo, and I dusn’t want de blessed Lord to ax me wen I gets dar why I ’lowed dese pore ig’nant brack folks to mudder a man ’fore my bery face.  I toted you, massa, fore you cud gwo, I’se worked for you till I can’t work no more; and I dusn’t want to tell de Lord dat my massa let a brudder man be killed in cole blood.’

’He is no brother of mine, you old fool; preach to the nigs, don’t preach to me,’ said the Colonel, stifling his displeasure, and striding off through the black crowd, without saying another word.

Here and there in the dark mass a face showed signs of relenting; but much the larger number of that strange jury, had the question been put, would have voted—­DEATH.

The old preacher turned to them as the Colonel passed out, and said, ’My chil’ren, would you hab dis man whipped, so weak, so dyin’ as he am, of he war brack?’

‘No, not ef he war a darky—­fer den he wouldn’t be such an ole debil,’ replied Jim, and about a dozen of the other negroes.

’De w’ite ain’t no wuss dan de brack—­dey’m all ’like—­pore sinners all ob ’em.  De Lord wudn’t whip a w’ite man no sooner dan a brack one—­He tinks de w’ite juss so good as de brack (good Southern doctrine, I thought).  De porest w’ite trash wudn’t strike a man wen he war down.’

’We’se had ‘nough of dis, ole man,’ said a large, powerful negro (one of the drivers), stepping forward, and, regardless of the presence of Madam P——­ and myself, pressing close to where the Overseer lay, now totally unconscious of what was passing around him.  ’You needn’t preach no more; de Cunnul hab say we’m to whip ole Moye, and we’se gwine to do it, by ——.’

I felt my fingers closing on the palm of my hand, and in a second more they would have cut the darky’s profile, had not Madam P——­ cried out, ’Stand back, you impudent fellow:  say another word, and I’ll have you whipped on the spot.’

’De Cunnul am my massa, ma’am—­he say ole Moye shall be whipped, and I’se gwine to do it—­shore.’

I have seen a storm at sea—­I have seen the tempest tear up great trees—­I have seen the lightning strike in a dark night—­but I never saw anything half so grand, half so terrible, as the glance and tone of that woman as she cried out, ’Jim, take this man—­give him fifty lashes this instant.’

Quicker than thought, a dozen darkies were on him.  His hands and feet were tied and he was under the whipping-rack in a second.  Turning then to the other negroes, the brave woman said, ’Some of you carry Moye to the house, and you, Jim, see to this man—­if fifty lashes don’t make him sorry, give him fifty more.’

This summary change of programme was silently acquiesced in by the assembled darkies, but many a cloudy face scowled sulkily on the octoroon, as, leaning on my arm, she followed Junius and the other negroes, who bore Moye to the mansion.  It was plain that under those dark faces a fire was burning that a breath would have fanned into a flame.