University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
THE COMMITTEE ADJOURNS.

VANCE'S plan was to escape down the river in his little
steam-tug, and join some one of the blockading fleet of
the United States, either at Pass à l'Outre or at the Balize.
The unexpected accession of two fellow-fugitives led him to
postpone his departure from the St. Charles to nine o'clock.
His own and Kenrick's baggage had been providently put on
board the Artful Dodger the day before. Winslow, in order
not to jeopard any of the proceedings, had accepted Vance's
offer to get from the latter's supply whatever articles of apparel
he might need.

At ten minutes before nine, the four fugitives met in Vance's
room. Vance and Onslow grasped each other by the hand.
That silent pressure conveyed to each more than words could
ever have told. The sympathy between them was at once profound
and complete.

“The negro who is to drive us,” said Vance, “is the man
to whom your father confided his last messages.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Onslow; “let me be with him. Let me
learn from him all I can!”

Vance told him he should ride on the outside with Peek.
Then turning to Winslow, he said: “Those white locks of
yours are somewhat too conspicuous. Do me the favor to hide
them under this black wig.”

The disguise was promptly carried into effect. At nine
o'clock Vance put his head out of the window. A rain-storm
had set in, but he could see by the gas-lights the glistening top
of a carriage, and he could hear the stamping of horses.

“All right,” said he. “Peek is punctually on the spot.
Does that carpet-bag contain all your baggage, Mr. Onslow?”

“Yes, and I can dispense with even this, if you desire it.”

“You have learnt one of the first arts of the soldier, I see,”
said Vance. “There can be no harm in your taking that
amount. Now let me frankly tell you what I conceive to be
our chief, if not our only hazard. My venerable friend, here,
Winslow, was compelled, a few hours since, in the discharge of
his duty, to give very dire offence to Mr. Carberry Ratcliff, of
whom we all have heard. Knowing the man as I do, I am of
opinion that his first step on parting with our friend would be
to put spies on his track, with the view of preventing his departure
or concealment. Mr. Winslow thinks Ratcliff could
not have had time to do this. Perhaps; but there 's a chance
my venerable friend is mistaken, and against that contingency
I wish to be on my guard. You see I take in my hand this
lasso, and this small cylindrical piece of wood, padded with
india-rubber at either end. Three of us, I presume, have revolvers;
but I hope we shall have no present use for them.
You, Mr. Winslow, will go first and enter the carriage; Kenrick
and I will follow at ten or a dozen paces, and you, Onslow,
will bring up the rear. In your soldier's overcoat, and with
your carpet-bag, it will be supposed you are merely going out
to pass the night at the armory.”

While this conversation was going on, Peek had dismounted
from the driver's seat. He had taken the precaution to cover
both the horses and the carriage with oil-cloth, apparently as a
protection against the rain, but really to prevent an identification.
No sooner had his feet touched the side-walk, than a
man carrying a bludgeon stepped up to him and said, “Whose
turn-out have you here, darkey?”

“Dis am massa's turn-out, an' nobody else's, sure,” said
Peek, disguising his voice.

“Well, who 's massa?”

“Massa 's de owner ob dis carriage. Thar, yer 'v got it. So
dry up, ole feller!”

The inquirer tried to roll up the oil-cloth to get a sight of
the panel. Peek interposed, telling him to stand off. The
man raised his bludgeon and threatened to strike. Peek's first
impulse was to disarm him and choke him into silence, but,
fearing the least noise might bring other officers to the spot,

he prudently abstained. Just at this moment, Winslow issued
from the side door of the hotel, and was about to enter the carriage,
when the detective who had succeeded in rolling up the
covering of the panel till he could see the coat-of-arms, politely
stopped the old man, and begged permission to look at him
closely by the gaslight, remarking that he had orders from
head-quarters to arrest a certain suspected party.

“Pooh! Everybody in New Orleans knows me,” said
Winslow.

“I can 't help that, sir,” said the detective, laying his hand
on the old man's shoulder, “I must insist on your letting —”

Before the speaker could finish his sentence, his arms were
pinioned from behind by a lasso, and he was jerked back so as
to lose his balance. But one articulation escaped from his lips,
and that was half smothered in his throat. “O'Gorman!” he
cried, calling to one of his companions; but before he could
repeat the cry, a gag was inserted in his mouth, and he was
lifted into the carriage and there held with a power that speedily
taught him how useless was resistance.

Kenrick made Peek and Onslow acquainted, and these two
sprang on to the driver's seat. The rest of the party took
their places inside.

“Down! down!” cried Peek, thrusting Onslow down on
his knees and starting the horses. The next moment a pistol
was discharged, and there was the whiz of a bullet over their
heads. But the horses had now found out what was wanted of
them, and they showed their blood by trotting at a two-fifty
speed along St. Charles Street.

Peek was an accomplished driver. That very afternoon he
had learnt where the steam-tug lay, and had gone over the
route in order to be sure of no obstructions. He now at first
took a direction away from the river to deceive pursuit. Then
winding through several obscure streets, he came upon the
avenue running parallel with the Levee, and proceeded for
nearly two miles till he drew near that part of the river where
the Artful Dodger, with steam all up, was moored against the
extensive embankment, from the top of which you can look
down on the floor of the Crescent City, lying several feet
below the river's level.

The rain continued to pour furiously, each drop swelling to
the size of a big arrow-head before reaching the earth. It was
not unusual to see carriages driven at great speed through the
streets during such an elementary turmoil: else the policemen
or soldiers would have tried to stop Peek in his headlong
career. Probably they had most of them got under some shelter,
and did not care to come out to expose themselves to a
drenching. On and on rolled the carriage. The rain seemed
to drown all noises, so that the occupants could not tell whether
or no there was a trampling of horses in pursuit.

As the carriage passed on to a macadamized section of the
road, “Tell me,” said Onslow, “what happened after my father
gave you the letter?”

“I hardly had time to conceal it,” replied Peek, “when six
of the ruffians entered the room, and I was ordered out. I
pleaded hard to stay, but 't was no use. The house was entirely
surrounded by armed men, ready to shoot down any one
attempting to escape. Your father had enjoined it upon me
that I should leave him to die rather than myself run the risk
of not reaching you with his letter and his messages.”

“Did he?” cried Onslow. “Was he, then, more anxious
that I should know all, than that he himself should escape?”

“He feared life more than death after what had happened,”
said Peek. “The six ruffians tried to get out of him words to
implicate certain supposed Union men in the neighborhood;
but he would tell no secrets. He obstinately resisted their
orders and threats, and at last their leader, in a rage, thrust
his sword into the old man's lungs. The wound did not immediately
kill; but the loss of blood seemed likely to make him
faint. Fearing he would balk them in their last revenge, the
ruffians dragged him out to a tree and hung him.”

“Did you see it done?”

“I saw him the moment after it was done. I had been
trying to satisfy myself that there was no life in your mother's
body; and it was not till I heard the shouts of the crowd that
I learnt what was going on below. I ran out, but your father
was already dead. He died, I learnt, without a struggle, much
to the disappointment of the Rebels.”

“And my mother,” asked Onslow. “Was there any hope?”

“None whatever, sir. She was undoubtedly dead.”

“Peek, you have a claim upon me henceforth. At present
I 've but little money with me, but what I have you must take.”

“Not a penny, sir! You 'll need it more than I. Mr. Vance
and Mr. Winslow have supplied me with ten times as much as
I shall require.”

Onslow said no more. For the first time in his life he felt
that a negro could be a gentleman and his equal.

“Peek,” said he, “you may refuse my money, but you must
not refuse my friendship and respect. Promise me you will
seek me if I can ever aid you. Nay, promise me you will visit
me when you can.”

“That I do cheerfully, sir. Here we are close by the
steam-tug.”

Peek pulled up the horses, and he and Onslow jumped to
the ground. The door was opened, and those inside got out.
The detective, who was the principal man of his order in New
Orleans (Myers himself), and whose mortification at being
overreached by a non-professional person was extreme, made
a desperate effort to escape. Vance was ready for it. He
simply twisted the lasso till Myers cried out with pain and
promised to submit. Then pitching him on board the steam-tug,
Vance left him under the guard of Kenrick and the Captain.
Winslow followed them on board; and Vance, turning
to Peek, said: “Now, Peek, drive for dear life, and take back
your horses. Our danger is almost over; but yours is just
beginning.”

“Never fear for me, Mr. Vance. I could leave the horses
and run, in case of need. Do not forget the telegraph wires.”

“Well thought of, Peek! Farewell!”

They interchanged a quick, strong grasp of the hand, and
Peek jumped on the box and drove off.

Vance saw a telegraph-pole close by, the wires of which
communicated with the forts on the river below. Climbing to
the top of it, he took from his pocket a knife, having a file on
one of its blades, and in half a minute severed the wire, then
tied it by a string to the pole so that the place of the disconnection
might not be at once discovered.

The next moment he cast off the hawser and leaped on

board the tug. Everything was in readiness. Captain Payson
was in his glory. The pipes began to snort steam, the
engines to move, and the little tug staggered off into the river.
Hardly were they ten rods from the levee, however, when a
carriage drove up, and a man issued from it who cried: “Boat
ahoy! Stop that boat! Every man of you shall be hung if
you don't stop that boat.”

Captain Payson took up his speaking-trumpet, and replied:
“Come and stop it yourself, you blasted bawler!”

“By order of the Confederate authorities I call on you to
stop that boat,” screamed the officer.

“The Confederate authorities may go to hell!” returned old
Payson.

The retort of the officer was lost in the mingled uproar of
winds and waves.

Confounded at the steam-tug's defiance, the officer, O'Gorman
by name, stood for a minute gesticulating and calling out
wildly, and then, re-entering the carriage, told the driver to
make his best speed to Number 17 Diana Street.

Let us precede him by a few minutes and look in upon the
select company there assembled. In a stately apartment some
dozen of the principal Confederate managers sat in conclave.
Prominent among them were Ratcliff, and by his side his lawyer,
Semmes, an attenuated figure, sharp-faced and eager-eyed.
Complacent, but inwardly cursing the Rebellion, sat Robson
with his little puffed eyes twinkling through gold-rimmed spectacles,
and his fat cheeks indicating good cheer. It was with
difficulty he could repress the sarcasms that constantly rose to
his lips. Wigman and Sanderson were of the company; and
the rest of the members were nearly all earnest Secessionists
and gentlemen of position.

Ratcliff had communicated his grievances, and it had been
decided to send a messenger to bring Winslow before the conclave
to answer certain questions as to his disposition of the
funds confided to him by the late Mrs. Ratcliff. The messenger
having returned once with the information that Winslow
was not at home, had been sent a second time with orders to
wait for him till ten o'clock.

It had been also resolved to summon Charles Kenrick before

the conclave, and an officer had been sent to the hotel for that
purpose.

There was now a discussion as to Vance. Who knew him?
No one intimately. Several had a mere bowing acquaintance
with him. Ratcliff could not remember that he had ever seen
him. Had Vance contributed to the cause? Yes. He had
paid a thousand dollars for the relief of the suffering at the
hospital. Did anybody know what he was worth? A cotton-broker
present knew of his making “thirty thousand dollars
clean” in one operation in the winter of 1858. Did he own
any real estate in the city? His name was not down in the
published list of holders. If he owned any, it was probably
held under some other person's name. Among tax-payers he
was rated at only fifty thousand dollars; but he might have an
income from property in other places, perhaps at the North,
on which he ought to pay his quota in this hour of common
danger. It was decided to send to see why Vance did not
come; and a third officer was despatched to find him.

“Does any one know,” asked Semmes, “whether Captain
Onslow has yet got the news of this terrible disaster to his
family in Texas?”

“The intelligence has but just reached us at head-quarters,”
replied Mr. Ferrand, a wealthy Creole. “I hope it will not
shake the Captain's loyalty to the good cause.”

“Why should it?” inquired Ratcliff.

“He must be a spooney to let it make any difference,” said
Sanderson.

“Some people are so weak and prejudiced!” replied Robson.
“Tell them the good of the institution requires that their whole
family should be disembowelled, and they can't see it. Tell
them that though their sister was outraged, yet 't was in the
holy cause of slavery, and it does n't satisfy 'em. Such sordid
souls, incapable of grand sacrifices, are too common.”

“That 's a fact,” responded George Sanderson, who was getting
thirsty, and adhered to Robson as to the genius of good
liquor.

“Old Onslow deserved his fate,” said Mr. Curry, a fiery little
man, resembling Vice-President Stephens.

“To be sure he deserved it!” returned Robson. “And so

did that heretical young girl, his daughter, deserve hers. Why,
it 's asserted, on good authority, that she had been heard to repeat
Patrick Henry's remark, that slavery is inconsistent with
the Christian religion!”

Mr. Polk, who, being related to a bishop, thought it was
incumbent on him to rebuke extreme sentiments, here mildly
remarked: “We do not make war on young girls and women.
I 'm sorry our friends in Texas should resort to such violent
practices.”

“Let us have no half-way measures!” exclaimed Robson.
“We can't check feminine treason by sprinkling rose-water.”

“The rankest Abolitionists are among the women,” interposed
Ratcliff.

“No doubt of it,” replied Robson. “Or if a woman is n't an
Abolitionist herself, she may become the mother of one. An
ounce of precaution is worth a pound of cure.”

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Polk, “I base my support of slavery
on evangelical principles, and they teach me to look upon rape
and murder as crimes.”

“It will do very well for you and the bishops,” replied Robson,
“to tell the hoi polloi, — the people, — that slavery is
evangelical; but here in this snug little coterie, we must n't
try to fool each other, — 't would n't be civil. We 'll take it
for granted there are no greenhorns among us. We can therefore
afford to speak plainly. Slavery is based on the principle
that might makes right, and on no other.”

“That 's the talk,” said Ratcliff.

“That being the talk,” continued Robson, “let us face the
music without dodging. The object of this war is to make
the slaveholding interest, more than it has ever been before,
the ruling interest of America; to propagate, extend, and at
the same time consolidate slavery; to take away all governing
power from the people and vest it in the hands of a committee
of slaveholders, who will regard the wealth and power of their
order as paramount to all other considerations and laws, human
or divine. I presume there 's nobody here who will deny
this.”

“Is it quite prudent to make such declarations?” asked Mr.
Polk, in a deprecatory tone.

“Is there any one here, sir, you want to hoodwink?” returned
Robson.

“O no, no!” replied Mr. Polk. “I presume we are all
qualified to understand the esoteric meaning of the Rebellion.”

“It is no longer esoteric,” said Robson. “The doctrine is
openly proclaimed. What says Spratt of South Carolina?
What says Toombs? What De Bow, Fitzhugh, Grayson,
the Richmond papers, Trescott, Cobb? They are openly in
favor of an aristocracy, and against popular rights.”

Before any reply was made, there was a knock at the door,
and Ratcliff was called out. In three minutes he returned, his
face distorted with anger and excitement. “Gentlemen,” said
he, “we are the victims of an infernal Yankee trick. I have
reason to believe that Winslow, aided perhaps by other suspected
parties, has made his escape this very night in a little
steam-tug that has been lying for some days in the river, ready
for a start.”

“Which way has it gone?” asked Semmes.

“Down the river. Probably to Pass à l'Outre.”

“Telegraph to the forts to intercept her,” said Semmes.

“A good idea!” exclaimed Ratcliff. “I 'd do it at once.”
He joined O'Gorman outside, and the next moment a carriage
was heard rolling over the pavements.

“Gentlemen,” said Robson, “if we expect to see any of the
parties we have summoned here to-night, there is something so
touching and amiable in our credulity that I grieve to harshly
dispel it. But let me say that Mr. Kenrick would see us all
in the profoundest depths before he would put himself in our
power or acknowledge our jurisdiction; Mr. Vance can keep
his own counsel and will not brook dictation, or I 'm no judge
of physiognomy; Captain Onslow has a foolish sensitiveness
which leads him to resent murder and outrage when practised
against his own family; and as for old Winslow, he has n't
lived seventy years not to know better than to place himself
within reach of a tiger's claws. I think we may as well adjourn,
and muse over the mutability of human affairs.”

Before Robson's proposition was carried into effect, an
errand-boy from the telegraph-office brought Semmes this
letter: —

“I agree with Mr. Robson,” said Semmes, “that we may as
well adjourn. The telegraph wires are cut, and I should not
wonder if all the summoned parties were among the fugitives.
Ratcliff pursues.”

The select assemblage broke up, and above the curses, freely
uttered, rang the sardonic laugh of Robson. “Two to one that
Ratcliff does n't catch them!” said he; but no one took up the
bet, though it should be remembered, in defence of Wigman
and Sanderson, that they were too busy in the liquor-closet to
heed the offer.

“Ah! my pious friends, — still at it, I see!” exclaimed
Robson, coming in upon them. “You remind me of a French
hymn I learnt in my youth:

Which, for Sanderson's benefit, I will translate:

Leaving the trio over their cups, let us follow the enraged
Ratcliff in his adventures subsequent to his letter to Semmes.

The Rebel was a boat armed with a one-hundred-pound rifled
gun, and used for occasional reconnoitring expeditions down
the river. Ratcliff had no difficulty in inducing the captain to
put her on the chase; but an hour was spent hunting up the
engineer and getting ready. At last the Rebel was started in
pursuit. The rain had ceased, and the moon, bursting occasionally
from dark drifting clouds, shed a fitful light. Ratcliff
paced the deck, smoking cigars, and nursing his rage.

It was nearly sunrise before they reached Forts Jackson and
St. Philip, thirty-three miles above the Balize. Nothing could
yet be seen of the steam-tug; but there was a telltale pillar
of smoke in the distance. “We shall have her!” said Ratcliff,
exultingly.

Following in the trail of the Rebel were numerous sea-gulls
whom the storm had driven up the river. The boat now entered
that long canal-like section where the great river flows
between narrow banks, which, including the swamps behind
them, are each not more than two or three hundred yards
wide, running out into the Gulf of Mexico. Here and there
among the dead reeds and scattered willows a tall white crane
might be seen feeding. Over these narrow fringes of swampy
land you could see the dark-green waters of the Gulf just beginning
to be incarnadined by the rising sun. With the salt-water
so near on either side that you could shoot an arrow into
it, you saw the river holding its way through the same deep,
unbroken channel, keeping unmixed its powerful body of fresh
water, except when hurricanes sweep the briny spray over
these long ribbons of land into the Mississippi.

Vance had abandoned his original intention of trying the
Pass à l'Outre. Having learned from a pilot that the Brooklyn,
carrying the Stars and Stripes, was cruising off the Southwest
Pass, he resolved to steer in that direction. But when
within five miles of the head of the Passes, one of those capricious
fogs, not uncommon on the river, came down, shrouding
the banks on either side. The Artful Dodger crept along at
an abated speed through the sticky vapor. Soon the throb of
a steamer close in the rear could be distinctly heard. The
Artful had but one gun, and that was a 5-inch rifled one; but
it could be run out over her after bulwarks.

All at once the fog lifted, and the sun came out sharp and
dazzling, scattering the white banks of vapor. The Rebel
might be seen not a third of a mile off. A shot came from her
as a signal to the Artful to heave to. Vance ordered the Stars
and Stripes to be run up, and the engines to be reversed. The
Rebel, as if astounded at the audacity of the act on the part
of her contemptible adversary, swayed a little in the current
so as to present a good part of her side. Vance saw his opportunity,

and, with the quickness of one accustomed to dead-shots,
decided on his range. The next moment, and before the
Rebel could recover herself, he fired, the shock racking every
joint in the little tug.

The effect of the shot was speedily visible and audible in
the issuing of steam and in cries of suffering on board the
Rebel. The boiler had been hit, and she was helpless. Vance
fired a second shot, but this time over her, as a summons for
surrender. The confederate flag at once disappeared. The
next moment a small boat, containing half a dozen persons,
put out from the Rebel as if they intended to gain the bank
and escape among the low willows and dead reeds of the
marshy deposits. But before this could be done, two cutters
bearing United States flags, were seen to issue from a diminutive
bayou in the neighborhood, and intercept the boat, which
was taken in tow by the larger cutter. The Artful Dodger
then steamed up to the disabled Rebel and took possession.

At the mouth of the Southwest Pass they met the Brooklyn.
Vance went on board, found in the Commodore an old acquaintance,
and after recounting the adventures of the last twelve
hours, gave up the two steamers for government use. It was
then arranged that he and his companions should take passage
on board the store-ship Catawba, which was to sail for New
York within the hour; while all the persons captured on board
the Rebel, together with the detective carried off by Vance,
should be detained as prisoners and sent North in an armed
steamer, to leave the next day.

“There 's one man,” said Vance, — “his name is Ratcliff, —
who will try by all possible arts and pleadings to get away.
Hold on to him, Commodore, as you would to a detected incendiary.
'T is all the requital I ask for my little present to
Uncle Sam.”

“He shall be safe in Fort Lafayette before the month is
out,” replied the Commodore. “I 'll take your word for it,
Vance, that he is n't to be trusted.”

“One word more, Commodore. My crew on board the little
tug are all good men and true. Old Skipper Payson, whom
you see yonder, goes into this fight, not for wages, but for love.
He has but one fault!”

“What 's that? Drinks, I suppose!”

“No. He 's a terrible Abolitionist.”

“So much the better! We shall all be Abolitionists before
this war is ended. 'T is the only way to end it.”

“Good, my Commodore! Such sentiments from men in
your position will do as much as rifled cannon for the cause.”

“More, Mr. Vance, more! And now duty calls me off. Your
men, sir, shall be provided for. Good by.”

Vance and the Commodore shook hands and parted. Vance
was rowed back to the Artful Dodger. On his way, looking
through his opera-glass, he could see Ratcliff in the cutter,
gnawing his rage, and looking the incarnation of chagrin.

The Catawba was making her toilet ready for a start. She
lay at a short distance from the Artful. Vance, Winslow, Kenrick,
and Onslow went on board, where the orders of the Commodore
had secured for them excellent accommodations. Before
noon a northeasterly breeze had sprung up, and they took their
leave of the mouths of the Mississippi.

Ratcliff no sooner touched the deck of the Brooklyn, than,
conquering with an effort his haughtiness, he took off his hat,
and, approaching the Commodore, asked for an interview.

The Commodore was an old weather-beaten sailor, not far
from his threescore and ten years. He kept no “circumlocution
office” on board his ship, and as he valued his time, he
could not tolerate any tortuous delays in coming to the point.

“Commodore,” said Ratcliff, “'t is important I should have a
few words with you immediately.”

“Well, sir, be quick about it.”

“Commodore, I have long known you by reputation as a
man of honor. I have often heard Commodore Tatnall —”

“The damned old traitor! Well sir?”

“I beg pardon; I supposed you and Tatnall were intimate.”

“So we were! Loved him once as my own brother. He
and I and Percival have had many a jolly time together. But
now, damn him! The man who could trample on the old flag
that had protected and honored and enriched him all his life
is no better than a beast. So damn him! Don't let me hear
his name again.”

“I beg pardon, Commodore. As I was saying, we know
you to be a gentleman —”

“Stop! I 'm an officer in the United States service. That 's
the only capacity I shall allow you to address me in. Your
salvy compliments make me sick. What do you want?”

“It 's necessary I should return at once to New Orleans.”

“Indeed! How do you propose to get there?”

“When you hear my story, you 'll give me the facilities.”

“Don't flatter yourself. I shall do no such thing.”

“But, Commodore, I came out in pursuit of an unfaithful
agent, who was running off with my property.”

“Hark you, sir, when you speak in those terms of Simon
Winslow, you lie, and deserve the cat.”

Ratcliff grew purple in the struggle to suppress an outburst
of wrath. But, after nearly a minute of silence, he said:
“Commodore, my wife died only a few hours ago. Her unburied
remains lie in my house. Surely you 'll let me return
to attend her funeral. You 'll not be so cruel as to refuse me.”

“Pah! Does your dead wife need your care any more than
my live wife needs mine? 'T is your infernal treason keeps me
here. Can you count the broken hearts and ruined constitutions
you have already made, — the thousands you have sent
to untimely graves, — in this attempt to carry out your beastly
nigger-breeding, slavery-spreading speculation? And now you
presume to whine because I 'll not let you slip back to hatch
more treason, under the pretence that you want to go to a funeral!
As if you had n't made funerals enough already in the
land! Curse your impudence, sir! Be thankful I don't string
you up to the yard-arm. Here, Mr. Buttons, see that this fellow
is placed among the prisoners and strictly guarded. I hold you
responsible for him, sir!”

The Commodore turned on his heel and left Ratcliff panting
with an intolerable fury that he dared not vent. Big drops of
perspiration came out on his face. The Midshipman, playfully
addressed as Mr. Buttons, was a very stern-looking gentleman,
of the name of Adams, who wore on his coat a very conspicuous
row of buttons, and whose fourteenth birthday had been
celebrated one week before. Motioning to Ratcliff, and frowning
imperiously, he stamped his foot and exclaimed, “Follow
me!” The slave-lord, with an internal half-smothered groan
of rage and despair, saw that there was no help, and obeyed.