"You don' know what chains means, chil'," said the imperturbable Sarp. "They're none the lighter because you can't see 'em. It a'n't jus' the power to sell your body and the work of your hands; it's the power to sell your soul! Ef Mas'r Henry hab de min',--ef Mas'r Henry have the mind, I say, to make you go wrong, can you help it while you 's a slave?" "'Taan' no fault o' mine ter be bad, ef I caan' help it. Come now," said Flor sullenly, seeing little hope of respite,--"should t'ink 'twas de Ol' Sarpint hisself!" "And 'taan' no virtue of yours to be good, ef you caan' help it; you 'd jus' stay put--jus' between--in de brown earth, as you said. You 'd never see that beautiful land beyond the grave, wid the river of light flowing troo der place, an' the people singing songs before the great white t'rone." "Tell me 'bout dat ar, Sarp," said Flor, forgetfully. "Dey 's all free there, Lome." "How was dis dey got dere? Could n' walk nowes, an' could n' fly"---- "Haan' you seen into Miss Emma's prayer-book the angels with wings high and shining all from head to foot?" "Yes," said Flor,--"_Angels_." "And one of them you 'll be, Lome, ef you jus' choose,--ef, for instance, you choose liberty to-day." "Lors now, Sarp, I doan' b'lieb a word you say! Get out wid yer conundrums! Likely story, little black nigger like dis yere am be put into de groun' an' 'come out all so great an' w'ite an' shinin'-like!" "'For God shall deliver my soul from the power of the grave.' _'Shall.'_ That's a promise,--a promise in the Book. Di'n't yer eber plant a bean, Lome,--little hard black bean? And did a little hard black bean come up? No, but two wings of leaves, and a white blossom jus' ready to fly itself, and so sweet you could smell it acrost de field. So they plant your body in the earth, Lome"---- "You go 'long, Sarp! Ef you plant beans, beans come up," said Flor, decisively. This direct and positive confutation rather nonplussed Sarp, his theory not being able at once to assimilate his fact, and he himself feeling, that, if he pushed the comparison farther, he would reach some such atrocity as that, if the white and shining flower produced in its season again the black bean from which it sprung, so the white and shining soul must once more clothe itself in the same sordid, unpurified body from which it first had sprung. He had a vague glimmer that perhaps his simile was too material, and that this very body was the clay in which the springing, germinating soul was planted to bloom out in heaven, but dared not pursue it unadvised, for fear of the quicksands into which it might betray him. He merely tied a knot in the thread of his discourse by answering,-- "Jus' so. The bean planted, the bean comes up. You planted, and what follows?" "I come up," said Flor, consentingly, and quite as if he had got the better of the discussion.