the next town. Cassy, therefore, with woman's tact, touched the only string that could be made to vibrate.
"Well, I'll let him off at what he's got," said Legree; "but he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions."
"That he won't do," said Cassy.
"Won't,—eh?"
"No, he won't," said Cassy.
"I'd like to know why, Mistress," said Legree, in the extreme of scorn.
"Because he's done right, and he knows it, and won't say he's done wrong."
"Who a cuss cares what he knows? The nigger shall say what I please, or—"
"Or, you'll lose your bet on the cotton crop, by keeping him out of the field, just at this very press."
"But he will give up,—course, he will; don't I know what niggers is? He'll beg like a dog, this morning."
"He won't, Simon; you don't know this kind. You may kill him by inches,—you won't get the first word of confession out of him."
"We'll see;—where is he?" said Legree, going out.
"In the waste-room of the gin-house," said Cassy.
Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied forth from the house with a degree of misgiving which was not common with him. His dreams of the past night, mingled with Cassy's prudential suggestions, considerably affected his mind. He resolved that nobody should be witness of his encounter with Tom; and determined, if he could not subdue him by bullying, to defer his vengeance, to be wreaked in a more convenient season.
The solemn light of dawn—the angelic glory of the morning-star—had looked in through the rude window of the
