"Does you know massa, dat you mos' make dis nigga cry," cried old Royal, with an infernal grin. "Niggas, 'scure dis tear! He am de fader ob a family, dis good man am." Old Royal wiped away a tear,--that is, an imaginary tear,--and then surveyed the faces of his colored brethren, with a look that turned Bloodhound's heart to ice. He felt that he was lost. "Don't, don't, d-o-n-'-t!" he shrieked, in agony of fear, "d-o-n-'-t!" "Why, who's a-touchin' you? Dar am not a single, solitary, blessed soul, layin' a fingaw on you." As old Royal spoke, he made a sign with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was obeyed by a huge negro who stood behind Bloodhound,--he struck the wretched man on the back of the head, with the stock of a revolver,--struck him with all the force of his brawny arm,--and the hard, dull sound of the blow, was heard distinctly, even above the fiendish shouts of the negroes. "Oh! don't, d-o-n-'-t!" shrieked Bloodhound, as the blood spurted over his hair and forehead, and even into his eyes; "don't, d-o-n-'-t!" Another blow.--from behind,--brought him to his knees. And then the thirty, or as many as could get near him, closed round him, shouting and yelling and striking. Every face was distorted with rage; every hand grasped a knife. Old Royal, who calmly surveyed the scene, saw the backs and faces of the negroes; saw the knives glittering, as they rose and fell; but Bloodhound was not to be seen. But his cries were heard, as he madly grappled with the knives which stabbed him,--for his bonds had been cut by one of the band,--and these cries, thick and husky, as though his utterance was choked by blood, would have moved a heart of stone. But every shriek only seemed to give new fire to the rage of the negroes; and gathering closer round the miserable man, they lifted their knives, dripping with his blood, and struck and struck and struck again, until his cries were stilled. As he uttered the last cry, he sprang madly into light, for a moment, shook his bloody hands above his head, and then fell to rise no more. You would not have liked to have seen the miserable thing which was stretched on the floor, in the center of that horrible circle, a miserable, mangled, shapeless thing, which, only a moment ago, was a living man. "Now genelmen," said old Royal, calmly, "de business bein' done, dis meetin' stand adjourn till furder ordaw. Niggas, I tink you'd bettaw cut stick." PART THIRD. "THROUGH THE SILENT CITY." DECEMBER 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER.