Meanwhile, low Antony, brother of Roux, bought chattel of Lafitte, foodless, filthy, helpless, friendless, despised and accursed, lay bound in the dark and noisome hold of a Boston vessel—a negro with no rights that a white man is bound to respect—with no rights that a Boston merchant might not, and would not, take away, all for the good of party and of trade—a good which, as every thoughtful patriot and Christian will allow, is the chief good of existence. CHAPTER XII. STARTLING DEVELOPMENTS. Harrington lifted his calm eyebrows with some wonder at the furious entrance of his friend, and sat regarding him with a firm mouth and steadfast eyes. Wentworth, out of breath with the speed of his course, and the tumult of his emotions, had flung his hat across the room, and himself upon the sofa, and sat panting, with his handsome face flushed, and his bright auburn curls damp with perspiration. “Well, Richard, what’s the matter?” said Harrington, calmly. “Has the sky fallen?” “Harrington, see here,” panted Wentworth, “Johnny’s just been up to the studio.” “Johnny? Who’s Johnny?” interrupted Harrington. “Oh, pshaw! Bagasse’s boy, you know. John Todd,” fumed Wentworth, stopping to wipe his brow with a white handkerchief. “Well. Is that any reason for your running yourself into a pleurisy?” bantered Harrington. “By George!” exclaimed the young artist, “it’s a reason for my running Fernando Witherlee into something else, and that’s a broken neck, I’m thinking. Cursed rascal!” “What’s Witherlee been up to now?” inquired Harrington, with sudden interest. “Impudence,” replied Wentworth. “Impudence unparalleled. Listen, Harrington. John Todd says Witherlee came into the fencing-school this morning, and had the atrocious impudence—the abominable—the infernal”— Wentworth stopped, gasping with rage. “O Muse of adjectives, descend!” jocosely cried Harrington, lifting his hand in mock-heroic invocation, with his cheeks wrinkled in a rich smile. Wentworth, thus prayed for, began to laugh, even in the midst of his fury. “Well, Harrington,” said he, “I know it’s foolish to get excited about it, but upon my word, Witherlee behaves scandalously. Do you know that he has been telling Bagasse a long rigmarole about Muriel and Emily, and you and me. Bagasse! Now just think of it! Think of his talking of two ladies like those, and in such a connection, and to Bagasse! Yes, of all persons in the world, to Bagasse!” Harrington’s color changed and his face puckered with amazement, while he nervously grasped the arms of his chair. “Is Witherlee possessed!” he ejaculated. “Why, I never heard of such conduct. So boyish, so foolish, such an outrage against the fitness of things”— “And so infamously impudent,” put in Wentworth. “It’s the impudence that strikes me.” “Certainly. It’s impudent, too, and I don’t wonder you were moved,” murmured Harrington, slowly, with an absorbed air.