"_Yes_, my poor, broken-hearted--_brother_!"
That word fell on his ear for the first time from a white man's lips,
and the stupefaction of it was a countercheck to his grief.
He became perfectly calm, and clasped me by the hands gently, like a
child.
"Mossa, you mean dat? To _me_, Mossa? Dear Mossa, den I _will_ try for
to bide de Lord's time! But," (here his face grew black in the growing
moonlight, with a deeper blackness than complexion,)--"but, if de Mossas
only _do_ put de guns into our han's, _oh, dey'll find out which side
we'll turn 'em on!_"
Jim, I hope you have arms in your hands long ere this, and have done
good work with them! I hope Sol has also. Either of you has enough of
the _vis ab intra_ to make a good soldier. As you won't know what that
means, Jim and Sol, I'll tell you,--it's a broken heart.
But whether Sol and Jim have arms in their hands or not, by all means
arm the rest.
Wanted, two hundred thousand British muskets to arm as many likely
niggers,--all warranted equal to samples, Sol and Jim,--same make, same
temper. Blockade-runners had better apply immediately.