"Yah-hah-a-what!" chorused the majority of the congress, showing their teeth and shaking their woolly heads together. "Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole massa, dat you lick last night," cried a voice. "Dat am an ole story," said old Royal, with dignity. "Suffis it to say, dat about five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry from de house whar he'd been licked, de night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib him some brandy likewise. His back was berry sore--" Here one of the gentlemen broke in with a parody of a well-known song-- "Oh, carry me back to ole Varginny-- My back am berry sore--" He began, in rich Ethiopian bass. "Silence nigga!" said old Royal, sternly, yet, showing his white teeth in a broad grin. "He am in New York at the present time, at de Astor House, I 'spec'; an' de Bloodhoun' am with him--" "De kidnapper!" "De nigger-catcher!" Cries like these resounded from twenty throats; and by the way in which knives and pistols were produced and brandished, it was evident that there was a cordial feeling--almost too cordial--entertained by the congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound. "To business," said old Royal, surveying the motley crowd. "I hab come to visit you to-night by d'rection ob _somebody dat you don't know_. It am ob de last importance dat you all get yesselves out o' dis town to Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you. Darfore I hab provided you wid dem revolvers,"--he pointed to the pistols, "and derfore I am here, to send you on yer ways, for de kidnappers am about." "Oh, dam de kidnappers!" was the emphatic remark of a dark gentleman; and it was chorused by the congress unanimously. "It am berry easy to say 'dam de kidnappers,'--berry easy to say dam--dam's a berry short word; but s'pose de kidnapper hab you, and tie you, and take you down south--eh, nigga? w'at den?" But before the gentlemen could reply to this pointed question of old Royal's, a circumstance took place which put an entire new face upon the state of affairs. The door was burst open, and two persons tumbled into the room, heels over head. Descending the stairs in the darkness, these persons had missed their footing, and fell. The door gave way before their united weight, and they rolled into the room in a style more forcible than graceful. When these persons recovered themselves and rose to their feet, they found themselves encircled by some thirty uplifted knives,--every knife grasped by the hand of a brawny negro. And the cry which greeted them was by no means pleasant to hear:-- "Death to the kidnappers!" "We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of the persons--our old friend Bloodhound. "Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the damned nigger that comes near me," cried the other person, who was none other than our friend Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, South Carolina.