"What hab you done? What hab you not done? You had done ebery ting that de black heart ob a white man do, and de day of recknin' am come at last. So you don't know me, don't you?" "Away, fiend, and let me die in peace!" "In peace--no; you shall die as you hab made oders live--in pain! When you can't hear dis nigga's voice plainly, he'll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your infernal soul, in de last minutes of you life!" "Who--who are you?" "I am Reuben, de son of Esther." "Esther!" "Yes, Esther, your father's slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?" Rody groaned. "Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?" Still no answer. "It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn't know me. I war too mean--too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I'd taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an' if I war a black man I war still a human bein', although you and de likes of you didn't think so. Do you know me now?" Rody uttered not a word. "When I war forced to limp away from your father's plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I'se happy now when I knows dat de dyin' planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don't be skear'd, I wouldn't lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I'se a going to do is to sit hyar an' watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!" "Oh, devil!" exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony. "Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!" The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody's side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features. And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death. At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal. "Ha--help--water--water! My soul's on fire! Devils--demons! Away-- away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose-- ah, horror!" The cries ceased. Elias Rody was dead! Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim. At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene. At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.