And told him for what merchandise he came.
The girl was not for sale, the other said.
"You talk at random now," said Richard Wain,
"You know I hold the deed of all your lands,
And so, unless you let the woman go,
Your whole estate shall have a sheriff's sale."
The planter turned a coward at the threat,
And knowing well what blood ran in the veins
Of her he sold, reluctant gave consent.
Above his wine he told Ruth of her fate,
And to the floor she fell, and swooned away.
Recovering, she rose upon her knees,
And begged, and prayed, that she might still remain.
At this he told her how the lands were held,
And if she went not he must starve or beg.
"Then let the lands be sold, and sold again;
If his, they are not yours. What good will come
If I do go to him? then all is his.
Last night I gave my hand to Karagwe.
O, it will break my heart to go away."
Lightly his mustache twirled Dalton Earl.
At dusk, in tears to Karagwe's low roof,
Ruth passed, and uttered, with wild, angry words,
The hard conditions that had been imposed.
She wept; he comforted: "There yet was hope:
There was a Hero, in a Book he read,
Who said that those who suffered would be blessed."
Then for the last, toward the planter's house
They walked, and o'er them saw the spider moon
Weaving the storm upon its web of cloud.
XII.
But Karagwe, when once he turned again,
Smote wildly his infuriated breast.
His fierce eyes flashed; he thirsted for revenge.
Then came a calmer mood, and far away
Sped the expelled thoughts like shuddering gusts of wind.
He wept that this injustice should be done;
Yet knew that in God's hand the scale was set,
And though His poor, down-trodden, waited long,
They waited surely, for His hour would come.
XIII.
The night passed, and the troublous morning broke,
And Ruth was sold away from him she loved.
The dark day died, and when the moon arose,
The foremost torch in day's long funeral train,
Karagwe went down toward the river's brink,
Thinking of what had been. He turned and saw
His enemy walk calmly up the road.
Quickly behind him came another form;
And in a jeweled hand, half raised to strike,
A poniard glistened. Then the negro rose,
And caught the weapon from the assassin's grasp,
And stood before the planter, Dalton Earl!
"Forgive," he said, "Forgiveness is a slave;
She has no pride, she never does an ill;
For she is meekly great, and nobly good,
And patient, though the lash of anger smites."
Rebuked, the master stood before the slave,
And Richard Wain passed on, nor knew his life
Was saved by one that he had that day wronged.
Thus Dalton Earclass="underline" "I thank you for this act,
Thwarting a bad intent. Yet I had cause
To take the sullied life of Richard Wain.
He drugged the wine he gave me at his house,
And knowing that I had with me the deed
And title of my lands, begged me to play,
And while I played, stake all upon a card.
He won, and I have hated from that hour."
XIV.
Like some great thought that finds release at last,
The happy Spring in buds expression found.
Coralline Earl grew rich in every grace.
Her eyes' blue heavens were serene with soul,
And goodness sunned her face from light within.
Her hands were soft with kindness. On her brow
Shone hope, more lovely than a ruby star.
As in the ancient days sat Mordecai
At the king's gate, and waited for the hour,
When, clothed with pomp, he too should take his seat
Among the mighty nobles of the land,
So at the gateway of her palace heart,
Love tarried, that he too might enter in,
And rule the kingdom of another life.
Not long the waiting; for when Stanley Thane
Came from his northern home with Dalton Earl,
And on the terrace steps met Coralline,
Love took the sceptre that his waiting won.
Well worthy to be loved was Stanley Thane.
He could not claim a titled ancestor,
Nor boast of any blood but Puritan.
His father was successful on exchange,
Reaped fortune by a rise in merchandise,
Now sent his partner son with Dalton Earl
Toward the claspless girdle of the South.
And Stanley Thane was all that makes true men;
High thought, high purpose, loving right the best,
His mind was clear and fresh as air at morn.
He kissed the rosy tips of Coralline's hand,
And that day galloped with her through the town,
And wandered with her down magnolia lanes,
And watched, below the spray-woofed fall, the brook,
That seemed a maid, who, sitting at a loom,
Wove misty lace to decorate the rocks.
XV.
Long o'er his writings hidden in the tree
Pondered the slave, and found at last their worth.
Must he return them? To whom did they belong?
If he should give them back to Dalton Earl
Unjustly, Richard Wain might claim them still.
He chose to keep there folded round the Book,
Hid in the secret hollow of the tree.
He thought of Ruth as one who was at rest,
And wept for her as though she was no more,
And sometimes gathered flowers, and placed them where
He knew she soon would pass, as tenderly
As though he laid them down upon her grave.
XVI.
Once in the twilight, as the shadows fell,
A skiff shot from the under-reaching shore,
And Stanley Thane and Coralline sailed down
The languid waters, 'neath the dappled moon.
They spoke of giant wars that yet might be
To drive the dragon Slavery from the land.
Coralline smoothed the evils it had wrought.
Stanley, who could not see a wrong excused,
Said, "God is just; he knows nor white nor black.
If war must come, each shackle will be forced,
To make, at last, the nation wholly free."
And Karagwe, who pulled a silent oar,
Shut the winged words in cages of his heart;
But Coralline was angry at the speech,
And rained disdain on noble Stanley's head,
Scorning his Northern thought and Northern blood,
And sighed that it had been their lot to meet.
"If that is true," he said, "then let us part,
And let us hope we shall not meet again.
Adieu! for I shall see you never more."
The boat was near the bank; he sprang to it,
And left her sitting in the gilded prow-
Her pride, a raging Hector of the hour,
Fighting a thousand tears, whose war-cry rose:
Thin patience brings thick damage in the end.
XVII.
When Richard Wain found that the deed was lost,
Which he had won at play with Dalton Earl,
Chagrin and rage were ready at a beck,
Like waters in a dam, to pass the race,
And turn the voluble mill-wheel of his tongue.
He half suspected Dalton Earl the thief,
Yet knew, if this were true, the threat he made
To gain Ruth from him, would have been in vain.
And so, because he feared to lose his power,
He kept his secret that the deed was lost.
PART SECOND.
Now through the mighty pulses of the land
Throbbed the dark blood of war; and Sumter's guns
Were the first heart-beats of a better day.
The avenging angel, with a scourging sword
Of fire and death, with triumph on his face,
Swept o'er the nation with the cry of War!
Ten thousand boroughs, dreaming peace, awake.
War in the South, with the South! War! War!
The shame we nourished stings us to the death.