"I am of no country," he said harshly. "I ceased to have a country, about the time Eleanor was born. But another time," his tone became milder, "I may tell you all about it." "And the fault of our country?" said Randolph, anxious to divert the thoughts of his friend from some painful memory, which evidently absorbed his mind, "what is it?" Mr. Lynn once more filled and slowly drained his goblet. "You are the last person to whom I may speak of this fault,--" "How so?" "You are a planter. You have been reared under peculiar influences. Your mind from childhood has been imperceptibly moulded into a certain form, and that form it is impossible to change. You cannot see, as I can; for I am a spectator, and you are in the center of the conflagration, which I observe from a distance. No, no, Randolph, I can't speak of it to you. But you planters will be wakened some day--you will. God help you in your awakening--hem!" Randolph's face became pale as death. "You speak, my friend, of the question of negro slavery. You surely don't consider it an evil. You--you--_hate_ the very mention of the race." Shading his eyes with his uplifted hand, Bernard Lynn said, with slow and measured distinctness: "Do I hate the race? Yes, if you could read my heart, you would find hatred to the African race written on its every fiber. The very name of negro fills me with loathing." He uttered an oath, and continued in a lower tone: "By what horrible fatality was that accursed race ever planted upon the soil of the New World!" Randolph felt his blood boil in his veins; his face was flashed; he breathed in gasps. "And then it is not sympathy for the negro, that makes you look with aversion upon the institution of American slavery?" "Sympathy for a libel upon the race--a hybrid composed of the monkey and the man? The idea is laughable. Were the negro in Africa--his own country--I might tolerate him. But his presence in any shape, as a dweller among people of the white race, is a curse to that race, more horrible than the plagues of Egypt or the fires of Gomorrah." "It is, then, the _influence of negro slavery upon the white race_, which concerns you?" faltered Randolph. "_It is the influence of negro slavery upon the white race_ which concerns me," echoed Lynn, with bitter emphasis: "But you are a planter. I cannot talk to you. To mention the subject to one of you, is to set you in a blaze. By George! how the devils must laugh when they see us poor mortals, so eager in the pursuit of our own ruin,--so merry as we play with hot coals in the midst of a powder magazine!" "You may speak to me upon this subject," said Randolph, drawing a long breath, "and speak freely." "It won't do. You are all blind. There, for instance, is the greatest man among you; his picture hangs at your back--"