Silent, amidst the ominous gathering murmurs and inarticulate shrill sounds, the slaveholder stood, with his livid, ghastly, sweat-bedabbled face turned toward Harrington’s. Suddenly the surging ocean swelled and tossed in wild confusion, and sinking into a pouring rush of running feet, rose again in a savage and appalling roar. “Hark to the coming of your doom!” cried Harrington, his voice pealing up amidst the din, and his arms uplifted like a prophet of ruin. “Hark to the hoarse blood-roar! Hark to the roar of St. Domingo! They come, the people you have trodden upon, they come to tear you limb from limb! In five minutes your head will roll in that street—your body be trampled into bloody mire!” “My God!” shrieked the trembling wretch, “am I to die here like a rat! Let me go—let me fight my way through the hounds!” Brandishing the knife, he rushed with forlorn bravery for the door. “Back!” thundered Harrington. “That way leads to certain death!” He sprang upon him as he spoke, wrested the knife from his hand, and hurling it across the room, flung him back to the wall. The wretched man covered his face with his hands! “They come! they are here!” cried Harrington. He sprang to the open door, and stood on the threshold, while amidst a tumbling sea of shouts and yells, came a tumultuous rush of feet on the wooden stairs. “Save me, save me,” wailed the miserable creature, rushing forward, and flinging himself on his knees with clasped hands at the feet of Muriel. “Up, up,” she cried, “quick, quick, and stay here.” She dragged him up on his feet as she spoke, and hurrying him into the inner room, closed the door upon him, and flew with the courage of an angel to the side of Harrington, just as the dense and raving mob of negroes poured headlong into the passage-way. He stood on the threshold, resolute and tranquil, knowing well that his own life was in imminent danger at that moment, as well as the slaveholder’s. Muriel stood by him, as calm and brave in that terrible crisis as he. Arrested in their fury by these strong, still presences, the sullen-browed and heavy-lipped grotesque throng hung lowering and swaying for the rush of the next instant. In their front stood the tall and muscular form of Elkanah Brown, with his knife in his hand. “Mr. Brown,” said Harrington, with magnetic dignity, “come here.” The stalwart negro stepped forward, with a face of fearful fierceness, amidst a deep hush in front, while shouts and murmurs still rose behind. “Mr. Brown,” said Harrington, in the same tone, “I want to speak with you a moment in this room, and I want you to ask our friends to remain where they are till you come out to them.” The negro hesitated for a moment, fiercely glaring at Harrington. Then, his glance falling on the sweet and solemn face of Muriel, grew gentler; and slowly turning, with a limber-hipped, insouciant movement, he waved his hand to his fellows.