“And so yo’ came here to _swear_ that we wanted to kill yo’? That’s about as much as a colored man can get for his care not to give offense. A man is a fool to go out of his way for any of yo’ white folks anyway. Yo’ had no right to aim to drive through our Company as yo’ did; but when I gave in and got out of yo’r way, and let you go ‘long—gave yo’ the road that b’longed to us—yo’ just come heah with such a lie as that against us.” “Captain, I don’t want you to treat my court with contempt,” said Rives, severely. “If you can’t address the gentleman more politely you must sit down.” “Judge, I don’t mean no contempt,” said Doc, in a conciliatory tone, “not if I know myself. I never expect to treat no lawful court with any contempt. I was only asking questions, but if the questions is not legal, then I don’t want to ask him. I won’t ask no mo’, but leave it to yo’r discretion,” and he sat down. “Well, sir, to sit down without permission is contempt of court.” With such an air of drollery as only a negro can assume, Doc sprung to his feet again, saying— “Yo’ mus’ pardon me sah. I’s not accustomed to law offices. If sitting down or anything else is contempt, I’m asking yo’r pardon this minute; for I didn’t mean to contempt this court.” “It is contempt, sir!” thundered the judge, “and I put you under arrest, and dismiss this court till July the 8th at four o’clock in the evening.” Some protestations were made on account of the lateness of the hour, but Rives insisted he could not leave his plantation labor earlier, and immediately declared the court adjourned. Neither the day nor hour was satisfactory to the complainants, as it was on Saturday afternoon, when many country negroes were certain to visit the village shops, stores, and market; but as the whites were more generally masters of their own time, it is possible Rives feared he might need the presence and support of his own race should he not condemn the accused. Harry Gaston was enraged and strutted about like a bantam cock; his face became almost livid, and his hands nervously bobbed in and out of the breast pockets of his short coat, where rested a well-prepared pistol on one side, and a flask of whiskey on the other. Alas, the _flask_ knew little rest. “I pray you be calm, my dear nephew,” said the Reverend Mr. Mealy, who, though inwardly _seething_, was so enswathed in his own innate mealiness, that he was measurably cool. “Do not allow this degraded black to disturb you. Remember your position in society. You have been raised by me as my own son. Do not disgrace yourself and me by condescending to dispute with one in his station, and of his color,” and grasping the young man’s arm, he moved towards the door. Lieutenant Watta, who had been sitting beside his Captain, now sprung to his feet, and grasping Doc’s arm, rushed towards the door, attempting to lead him out.