“Just wait here till I come out,” he said with a commanding air; then turning again, he entered the room, amidst a wild swarming of voices, and Harrington, closing the door, bolted it and faced him. “Is William Roux dead?” asked Brown, glancing gloomily at the prostrate body. “No, he is unharmed—he has only fainted,” said Harrington. “Where’s that soul-driving hound of a kidnapper?” roared the negro, gnashing his teeth, and rolling his fierce and torrid eyes around the room. “The boy said he was in here. Where’ve you hid him? Let me at him, till I cut his heart out!” “Listen to me, Brown,” said Harrington, in a solemn and majestic voice, fronting the roused passion of the negro with his soul divinely splendid in his eyes. “You are a brave man and the son of the brave. Your father fought in the black corps with Jackson, at New Orleans. Face to face with the foe, in honorable war. You yourself, walked from slavery in Louisiana to freedom in Massachusetts, knife in hand, through a land of enemies. You slew the hounds that followed you. You struck dead the armed hunters that opposed you. Man to man, in honorable war, with the odds against you, you proved yourself a brave man. Is it for you to stain the bravery of your manhood now, with the blood of a murder?” Half-subdued by the electric majesty of Harrington’s bearing, for the speech had poured from him as by inspiration, and he stood masterful and dauntless, the centre of magnetic forces such as darted from Rienzi to quell the tempest fury of old Rome; gratified, too, by the just tribute to his prowess which the young man had paid him, and with his nobler nature dimly rising through the black and bloody seethe of vengeance, the negro remained for a moment in silence, with an irresolute and startled air, while the shouts and murmurs swelled and tossed like a rising sea of sound around the dwelling. “Murder, Mr. Harrington?” he faltered. “Yes, murder,” replied Harrington. “This base wretch lies here, helpless and at your mercy. To kill him, and you a thousand to one, is murder. You who never slew a man save in fair fight, will you slaughter him and the helpless in your hands? Think! When this hour of passion is over, will you feel proud that this miserable wretch was butchered by you in his helplessness? Think!” The negro stood glaring at Harrington with parted lips, and sombre and torrid eyes. “He took the risk himself!” he answered sullenly, with mounting rage. “The soul-driving hound dared to come here where we live, and try to drag off one of us. What right has he to mercy? Look at that man there, scared into a dead faint! He did it”—