“Yasser, Marse Carson; but, Marse Carson, I don't know no mo' about dat thing dan you do. 'Fo' God, Marse Carson, I'm telling you de trufe. Lawsy, Marse Carson, you kin git me out o' here ef you'll des tell 'em ter let me go. Dey all know you, Marse Carson, en dey know none er yo' kind er black folks ain't er gwine ter do er nasty thing lak dat. Look how dey did las' night! Shucks! dey wouldn't er lef' enough o' my haar fer er hummin'-bird's nest, ef I hadn't got ter you in de nick er time. Dat pack er howlin' rapscallions was tryin' ter tear me ter mince-meat when you fired off dat big speech en made 'em all feel lak crawlin' in holes. You tell 'em, Marse Carson--you tell de jailer ter le' me out. Dat man know you ain't no fool; he know you is de biggest lawyer in de Souf. Ain't I heard old marster say you gwine up, en up, en up, till you set in de jedge's seat in de cote? Las' night, when you 'gun on 'em, en let out dat way, I knowed I was safe, but I don't see what yo'-all waitin' fer; I want ter go home ter mammy, Marse Carson. Look lak she been sick, en she cried en tuck on here, en so did young miss. Marse Carson, _what's de matter wid me?_ What I done? I ain't er bad nigger. Unc' Richmond, on de farm, toi' me 'twas' ca'se I made threats ergin dat white man 'ca'se he whipped me. I did talk er lot, Marse Carson, but I never meant no harm. I was des er li'l mad, en--” “Stop, Pete!” There was a crude wooden stool in the cell and Carson sat down on it. His heart was overflowing with pity for the simple, trusting creature before him as he went on gently and yet firmly: “You don't realize it, Pete, but you are in the most dangerous position you were ever in. I am powerless to release you. You'll have to be taken to court and seriously tried by law for the crime of which you are charged. Pete, I'm going to defend you, but I can't do a thing for you unless you tell me the whole truth. If you did this thing you must tell me--_me_, do you understand. We are alone. No one can hear you, and if you confess it to me it will go no further. Do you understand?” Dwight's glance was fixed on the floor. To this point he had steeled himself against a too impulsive faith in the negro's words that he might logically satisfy himself beyond any doubt as to the innocence or guilt of his client. There was silence. He dared not look into the gashed face before him, dreading to read what might be written there by the quivering hand of self-condemnation. The sheer length of the ensuing pause sent cold darts of fear through him. He waited another moment, then raised his eyes to the staring ones fixed upon him. To his astonishment they were full of tears; the great, heavy lip of the negro was quivering like that of a weeping child. “Why, Marse _Carson!_” he sobbed; “my God, I thought you knowed I didn't do it! When you tol' 'em all las' night dat I wasn't de right one, I thought you meant it. I never once thought you--_you_ was gwine ter turn ergin me.”