“Yes, madam,” returned Roux, “the captain took me all the way up to Cincinnati. Where are ye goin’ now, William, says he. Boston, says I. Men, says he, let’s give him an Ohio lift. Wich meant takin’ up a collection, madam,” explained Roux, bowing. “An’ the collection was fifteen dollars and thirty-three cents, madam, together with a suit of the captain’s clothes, an’ some vittles in a paper bag. Captain, says I, my gratefulness will never fail. William, says he, just hold on to that carving-knife, an’ don’t let yourself be taken. Captain, says I, if I ever git to heaven, I’ll make the Lord acquainted with all you’ve done for me. William, says he, don’t you never acquaint anybody but the Lord with it, or I’m a gone coon. An’ now make tracks, says he. So I made tracks, an’ come on safe to Boston.” “Well, I declare!” exclaimed Emily, drawing a long breath, and looking around her. “It makes my blood boil to think that men are treated so in this country. And you never heard from your brother, Mr. Roux?” “Never, madam. But I don’t think he’s alive. I’m afeared that Master Lafitte would kill him to be revenged on me, and that makes me feel, sometimes, as if I’d murdered my own brother.” He said this in low, ghostly tones, with a sudden agony and horror convulsing his dark face. It is impossible to describe the shock of awful emotion which his words gave to Emily. There was a moment of solemn silence, in which Roux stood faintly gasping, with his swart visage ashen and distorted with overmastering anguish, and she, gazing on him with a blanched countenance, felt as if her very soul would die with pity. “Couldn’t he be bought?” she timidly stammered, at length, half feeling that she was proposing an absurdity. “That is—I mean if he is—if he has not—died.” Roux despairingly shook his head. “If I had the money, madam,” he hoarsely faltered, “I’d try to buy him. But that’ll never be—never.” “I’ll engage to furnish the money,” said Emily, vehemently, the generous color flooding her face like fire. “I will,” she added, stamping her foot as she sat. “If it costs me two thousand dollars, or twice two thousand, it shall be done.” A dead silence ensued, in which she gazed at their mute faces. It was the brave New England scholar who did sweet service to liberty when the guns of tyranny stormed on Rome—it was Margaret Fuller who once gave away all her little property, five hundred dollars, to a poor exile, a stranger to her, whose distresses had touched her heart. Born of such an impulse, and kindred to that splendid generosity, was this act of Emily’s. “Why do you all look so?” she continued. “I mean what I say.”