The colored assistant here issued from the warehouse and crossed the street, bearing a little quadroon girl and her bundle in his arms. Simultaneously a new and elegant barouche, drawn by two sleek horses, and having two blacks in livery on the driver’s box, stopped in the rear of the crowd. The occupant got out, and strolled toward the stand. He was a middle-aged man, with well-formed features, a smooth, florid complexion, and a figure inclining to portliness. Apparently a gentleman, were it not for that imperious, aggressive air, which the habit of domineering from infancy over slaves generally imparts. He carried a riding-whip, with which he carelessly switched his legs. As he drew near the stand, the auctioneer’s assistant placed on the cotton-bale the little quadroon girl. She was almost an infant, evidently not three years old, with very black hair and eyebrows, though her eyes did not harmonize with the hue. She was naked even to her feet, with the exception of a little chemise that did not reach to her thighs. Her figure promised grace and health for the future. In the shape of her features there was no sign of the African intermixture indicated in the hue of her skin. With a wondering, anxious look she regarded the scene before her, and was making an obvious effort to keep from crying. “Now here is Number 12, gentlemen,” said Ripper. “Jest look at the little lady! Thar she is. Fust-rate stock. Look at her hands and feet. Belonged to the Quattles family of Mobile, and I’m charged by the Rev. Mr. Quattles to knock her down to himself (though he can’t afford to buy her), rather than have her go into the wrong hands. She’s the child of his half-sister, yer see, gentlemen. What am I offered for this little lady?” “A hundred dollars,” said a voice from the crowd. “I’m offered two hunderd dollars for this little tidbit,” said Ripper, pretending to have misunderstood the bid. Colonel Delancy Hyde stepped forward, and, taking a position at the side of the auctioneer, addressed the crowd: “I know the Quattles family, gentlemen. It’s an unfort’nit family, and they’d never have put this yere child under the hammer if so be they hadn’t been forced right up ter it by starn necessity.” “Who the hell are you?” asked a tall, lank, defiant-looking gentleman, who seemed to be disgusted at the Colonel’s interference. “Who am I? I’ll tell yer who am I,” cried the latter. “I’m Colonel Delancy Hyde. Anything to say agin that? Virginia-born, be Gawd! My father was Virginia-born afore me, and his father afore him, and they owned more niggers nor you ever looked at. Anything to say agin that, yer despisable corn-cracker, yer!” “Hold yer tongue, Colonel; you’re drivin’ off a bidder,” whispered Ripper. The Colonel collapsed at once, quelling his indignation.